Holy Space
by KingMobUK
Summary: In the wake of Lana Skye's trial, Miles Edgeworth finds that sometimes, you can only face your demons by running away. Post 1:5, pre 2:4, so spoilers for PW:AA and PW:JFA. All characters from the games belong to Capcom. SEXUAL CONTENT AND SLASH.
1. A Stranger To Myself

_**Author's Notes:** Wow. Where to start. I've never been to Paris, I've never attempted a story as long as this, and I'm not Miles Edgeworth. So many people have been helpful in the course of writing this that it would be churlish not to acknowledge them because I would never have started or finished it without their help. God help us all if I ever try to write an original trial.__On Livejournal, thanks to anw for his "Man Who Ate Paris" LiveJournal entries which were deeply educational to a Paris virgin._

_Thanks also to many other folks on LJ, at work and on various Internet fora who helped me out with information about the finer points of London tailors, Paris geography, the serious business of law, boutique hotels, restaurants, cafes and the Latin Quarter – as well as providing translation assistance to a non-French speaker. My friends are made of awesome._

_On the writing front, Cathryn is the most awesome brainstorming partner in the world and Musouka, Tellezara and Shiva are betas from heaven. They have all put up with my rambling emails, crises of faith and erratic writing._

_And lastly of course thanks to my own personal Edgeworth, without whom etc._

_All main characters belong to Capcom, not me. George the tailor, La Sainte-Chapelle, The St James Hotel and many other locations are real. The rest is speculation. And lastly, thank you for reading!_

* * *

**Part One: A Stranger To Myself (London, February)**

"_I'm a danger to myself  
And I won't deny it's true  
And in the stillness of the night  
I feel so troubled through and through"  
__- TELEVISION PERSONALITIES_

Miles Edgeworth had been in London for less than twenty-four hours. Most of that time he had spent lost in the Underground system, thankful to blend unnoticed into a million other faces; to drift unthinking among a stream of passing strangers and half-read theatre adverts. He had no destination in mind – nothing but an instinctual need to keep moving – to distract himself from the thoughts that crowded in if he allowed himself to relax for even a moment. But as rush hour approached, his claustrophobia finally caught up with him and he alighted at Waterloo, emerging onto the street to be chilled by the sudden cold and disoriented by the passing traffic.

For two days, he'd been driven by Damon Gant's words echoing in his head.

"_You despise criminals. I can feel it. You and me... we're the same. If you want to take them on alone... you'll figure out what's needed!"_

Gant was in jail now - would never be a free man again. Miles knew that. He _did_ that – he and Wright. But it made no difference. That quiet, deceptively plausible voice was still just as clear, its edge of certainty still just as chilling. It had followed him all the way from Los Angeles and it followed him still; laughed at him over the noise of the crowds and made his skin crawl each time he caught sight of his own reflection in the darkened window of an Underground train.

_Is this what it feels like to have nothing to live for? _Images of Los Angeles crowded his mind – Gumshoe, Wright, Larry, the Skye sisters, the Prosecutor's Office, the District Court – people and places that he knew well two days ago. Now they felt vague and blurred, like someone else's memories that he'd merely read in a book. Now his only reality was the overwhelming desire to run, hide, and lose himself somehow, anywhere.

Gant's words might have been the catalyst, but the urge to leave Los Angeles had been building slowly but inexorably since his own trial at Christmas. The initial flood of elation and relief when he realised that he could not have killed his father had soon passed, and then Miles had been hit by the full impact of the deception and betrayal that Manfred Von Karma had perpetrated.

He could remember that moment so clearly. He could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat every time it came to mind. _How could I not have seen it? How? He manipulated my life for fifteen years and all the time… it was all for revenge_.

Miles clenched his fists reflexively as he relived that second when it had been revealed that his mentor and guardian had been the true murderer of his father. The pain of that revelation was as keen now, two months later, as it had been that day in court.

Until then he had never consciously doubted his purpose, as a prosecutor or as Manfred Von Karma's chosen successor. Within months of Yanni Yogi's acquittal echoing round the courtroom fifteen years ago, Miles' desire for revenge against the man accused of killing his father and his hate for the attorney that had defended him had been nursed and fuelled by his mentor into an all-consuming obsession.

"_Sometimes we have to use half-truths or selective evidence in order to trap the guilty. All suspects, all witnesses, will lie – this is a basic truth, and you must be prepared to think like them to win,"_ he could recall Von Karma's lectures verbatim even now. _"Your father's killer would be in jail if the prosecutor had done his job, but he failed. He allowed Robert Hammond and Yanni Yogi to lie and to deceive. You will not fail – your conviction record will be perfect."_

In those early days, his father's voice had still been clear to him, and despite trying not to call him to mind, sometimes his words would creep back into Miles' memory. _"An attorney never lies. He can only use facts and evidence to prove his case, or he's no better than a criminal himself."_

At first he had tried to reconcile these two lessons and quiet his conscience. But as soon as the nightmares started, he knew. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd already lied when he stood in the witness box at Yanni Yogi's trial and told the judge that he didn't remember anything, didn't hear anything, didn't _do_ anything. He knew in that instant when he woke in the dark - alone, terrified, screaming out to his father - that Manfred Von Karma was right. Witnesses _always_ lie.

Miles had carried the knowledge with him from that moment, reminded constantly by the dreams that hounded him and kept him from sleep. When he finally became a prosecutor, he'd devoted his life to getting guilty verdicts and destroying the lies of defence attorneys – by any means necessary. And on top of that had been a growing vanity about his own record of perfection. He had basked in Von Karma's praise, worked for the reward of that approving hand on his shoulder and the ever-present smirk that indicated pride in a protégé's success.

But today, he knew with certainty that his mentor's smiles had always been at the conceit and naiveté of Gregory Edgeworth's son, not for Miles Edgeworth's achievements. Today, the thought that his arrogance and self-hatred had blinded him so comprehensively brought with it a pain that was almost physical. In its wake, the urge to keep moving, to stop thinking, returned.

The blue-white lights of the London Eye dominated the skyline, clearly visible above the surrounding buildings. Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, Miles crossed the road and headed towards it, ignoring the rain and taking little note of the passing pedestrians, none of whom spared him a glance.

He knew now that the seeds of self-doubt had been sown in his heart the first time that Phoenix Wright stood against him in court during the Fey trial. First defending Maya Fey and then defending himself, Wright had refused to be tricked or intimidated. The defence attorney's own life had been on the line, but still he did not break down under Miles' onslaught of evidence and carefully coached witness testimony.

Looking at Phoenix Wright's face across the courtroom had brought back images into his mind of his childhood and a father that had steadfastly defended suspects against similar machinations. He wanted to eliminate those memories, to destroy this man who stood there with a reproach in his eyes that was almost tangible and threatened everything that he believed in. But he had failed. His perfect win record was destroyed in one strike of the gavel, and in that moment, he hated Wright for it. _If Redd White hadn't confessed on the stand, I would have pressed the judge for a guilty verdict and recommended a death sentence. And given White's connections, I'd have got it._

He'd been shaken, afterwards. The strength of his own feelings towards the end of that trial had shocked him, even then. He'd recognised it as an unprofessional and irrational reaction, but could not deny it. Now, just remembering it frightened him, and he hunched his shoulders against the memory, quickening his pace towards the river, oblivious to his surroundings.

Miles had returned to court a month after the Fey affair, intending to avenge himself on the man he now regarded as his enemy. He clearly recalled standing in the lobby before the trial, almost smirking as he gripped his briefcase; confident that this time, his case was watertight and his witnesses sound. _God, I was so sure. _But instead, things had taken a different turn.

It had started while Cody Hackins was on the stand. _"I don't care if he's a child or a prosecuting attorney! No one should lie in court!"_ The defence attorney's words and the accusing finger that accompanied them might have passed unnoticed among the objections being flung around by both sides and the sulky pre-teen's responses. But Miles had heard, and it was as if Phoenix Wright had looked directly into his soul as he uttered those words, as if his finger pointed directly at Miles' heart. He remembered the sudden feeling of panic that made him grip his desk until his fingers ached. _He knows. He knows what kind of man I am. He knows what I did._

The panic had passed as reason reasserted itself, but the memory of it stayed at the back of his mind for the rest of that day and kept him from bed that night. He didn't dare to sleep because he knew that in the dark, his father would be waiting for him.

The defence attorney's words still lingered in his mind when the trial reconvened. Wright's defence, as usual, rested entirely on his belief in his client and little else, but Miles had found himself sucked in by the sincerity behind those blue eyes and the compelling belief that Wright exuded from every pore.

He couldn't ignore the doubt that nagged at him, and it was as if watching himself from a distance when he asked for Dee Vasquez to testify again, willing the woman to give Wright an opening that would allow him to prove his case. He'd felt torn in half. It was as if Gregory Edgeworth and Manfred Von Karma were fighting for his soul in that moment just as they had when he was a child. All thought about his win record and his personal pride had vanished.

And in the end? He'd lost. Again. But this time, he didn't hate. He feared. Uncertainty and doubt were emotions that he could barely remember or put a name to. They were not feelings that he had ever learned to confront - they simply did not exist, in his world. In his world, defendants were always guilty, witnesses always lied, and defence attorneys were all illusionists using sleight of hand to divert attention from the criminals.

He'd anticipated the summons from Von Karma the moment the trial was over – was grateful for it, even, when a clerk pushed the note into his hand in the Court Lobby.

* * *

"_Come in."_

Von Karma had his back to the door. He was standing at the window, hands clasped neatly behind him, silver hair tied back in a turquoise ribbon. He seemed almost ghostly in the reflected gleam from the fluorescent lights. Miles could not guess if his mentor was looking at something, in the twilight, or if he just wanted to make him wait.

"_Sit down, Miles."_ Quietly.

"_I need to get back to my office to finish up this paperwork…"_

"_Sit down, Miles."_ Von Karma's tone changed only slightly, and he didn't look round.

Miles sat down, in one of the upholstered blue leather chairs that seemed far too large and far too ornate for a state prosecutor's office. He gripped the files in his left hand tighter to his chest, placing his right on the lion's head that crested the carved, wooden arm.

Von Karma turned, crossed his arms, and regarded Miles coolly. His face was completely impassive, unreadable.

"_Explain to me what I just saw."_

Miles looked away, hand tightening on the chair arm; feeling the carved wooden teeth of the lion on his fingertips as they curled into its open mouth.

"_Powers is innocent. Justice was served."_

Silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Miles could see Von Karma shift slightly, move towards his desk.

"_Is that all?"_

Miles said nothing.

"_Could the defence have proved that point? Unassisted?"_

Silence.

"_Well?"_ He moved again, deliberately standing in front of Miles, commanding his attention just by his presence. Miles looked back, but kept his eyes low.

"_I… don't know."_

"_It is not your job to make the defence's case for them, Miles. If they cannot prove their client is innocent, then how can we be sure that there is no guilt in the matter?"_

"_The Vasquez woman confessed."_

"_Ah, yes. A mob whore already proven to have lied both under oath and to the police."_ Von Karma's tone was condescending - almost mocking, now. Miles felt his face flush, slightly.

"_Is there something between you and this… Phoenix Wright?"_ The abrupt change of subject caught Miles off-guard and he looked up, surprised. Their eyes met.

"_When you started work here I warned you about your personal life and your… inclinations."_

"_Personal life? I have no personal life, Manfred."_ His voice was slightly bitter, and a smile twisted the corner of his mouth. His fingers tensed painfully on the carved wooden chair and he could tell from the slight eye movement that Von Karma had noted the reaction, although his face remained a mask. _"Wright is merely an attorney. We were friends as children, but he means nothing to me now."_

There was a long pause. Von Karma's finger tapped against his upper arm, in perfectly measured beats.

"_Friends make you weak, Miles. Remember that. Fawles and White… well – what can one do if people insist on killing themselves or confessing impetuously on the stand. But this? Today? Would you have sacrificed your conviction record for anyone else? If this - Wright - is a weakness for you, you must learn to overcome it. I will only allow one mistake."_

Before Miles could make a comment, Von Karma closed the gap between them, pale eyes suddenly intense. He rested his hand lightly but firmly on Miles' wrist, and Miles relaxed automatically under the touch. _"I'm concerned about you, Miles. You've been working too hard. Dedication is a virtue, but not when it affects the quality of your work… or your judgement. Go home."_

"_I have cases to deal with."_

"_Have them sent over to me."_

"_I… will be fine. But… thank you."_

"_It wasn't a suggestion, Miles. Go home. Remember why you're here. Remember who you are."_

Von Karma stepped away, moved towards his desk again, as Miles rose from the chair. He could feel the older man's eyes on his back as he walked towards the door. Just as his hand closed on the doorknob, that quiet voice broke the silence again.

"_They all lie, Miles. You know that."_

He hesitated, but didn't look back; just stepped out and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Von Karma was right, then. He did know that – better than anyone.

The two months that had followed were a blur to him - a constant round of trials, testimony and sleepless nights, fuelled by a desperate drive to regain his sense of purpose, to drown out the doubts that assailed him whenever he stopped to consider his actions. The recurring nightmares of his father's death had increased in frequency, and only his work had kept him focussed and sane. He'd accepted his failure in the eyes of his mentor and pushed himself even harder to redeem it, to regain his approval. It simply never occurred to him to do anything else.

He shivered. February in London was cold and wet, but right now Miles was more aware of the coldness he felt inside than that soaking through his overcoat. He'd reached the river and now stood there motionless, arms folded, barely noticing the slow drizzle that slicked his grey hair flat against his face and glistened on his eyelashes. The lights of the Eye and the strings of bulbs that illuminated this stretch of the embankment reflected back up at him from the surface of the Thames, and he watched their movement in the ripples with numb detachment.

It was at the end of December that the carefully constructed lie that was Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth had finally been shattered. He had been on trial for his own life, and not a single defence attorney in the city would take his case. It was a tacit act of revenge against his reputation and his tactics in court. When he'd heard that Von Karma was to prosecute the case, he knew he was truly alone again, just as he had been fifteen years ago.

When Phoenix Wright and Maya Fey arrived at the Detention Centre on Christmas Day, it had been like a bad joke. Under any other circumstances, he might even have laughed. The case amounted to career suicide, and still Wright had stepped forward, despite everything, offering to defend him. He had no evidence, no testimony – just that stupid look of sincerity in his eyes that Miles had seen before.

It would have been so easy to appoint the defence attorney and watch him fail, as Miles expected he would, ending up disgraced and possibly worse if Von Karma had his way. It would have been the perfect revenge for their previous encounters.

But that moment during Will Powers' trial when he'd thought Wright knew the secrets of his heart came back to him – how he'd felt - the fear and the panic. Facing the possibility of having to confide in Wright as his lawyer, to tell him all, he was consumed with shame. Of all people, he could not bring himself to confess to this man, who claimed him as his inspiration. How could he admit why he'd changed and how much – that he had killed his own father and hidden it for so long?

But Wright had refused to take no for an answer, responded to rudeness only with humour. His constant but irrational assertion of belief in Miles; his dogged pursuit of evidence and testimony had worn the prosecutor down. And in the end, he'd faced up to his fear, confessed everything - every shameful detail, every painful memory. Even after that, Wright stood fast, proving that what Miles had believed to be true for all those years was, after all, just a nightmare.

Not once, but twice in that case, Wright saved his life. Miles had not known then how to deal with the fact that someone else had that kind of confidence in him when he lacked it himself.

_Even now, I don't… can't understand it._

The day after the trial and Von Karma's arrest, he'd had to face his own past, and self-doubt had begun to grow. Memories rushed back from where he'd buried them, year after year. The only legacy his father had been able to leave him was that of honesty, integrity and justice, and he'd thrown it all away. Doubts about guilty verdicts he'd gained in the past crept into his mind. He had been sick to the stomach at his own gullibility and weakness, his confidence in his own intelligence and instincts all but destroyed as he realised the ease with which he'd been manipulated. And more shameful still, there was a lingering resentment at the back of his mind against Wright, as irrational as that was. The defence attorney, meanwhile, had been oblivious, offering friendship and reconciliation with those earnest blue eyes.

He uncrossed his arms and thrust his hands into his pockets, casting his gaze over the London skyline. If he'd been a different man, perhaps he would have taken that outstretched hand without a second thought. But he wasn't.

Miles had gone back to work and tried to lose himself in it, to fill his hours with distractions. But no amount of paperwork and procedure could erase the growing conviction that he had completely and utterly screwed up his life and his career. The thought haunted him day and night as he went about his work, attempting to continue on as normal beneath a veneer of professionalism.

Then he'd been assigned Lana Skye's case and it rapidly became obvious that his loyalty to Police Chief Gant had been called into question in the wake of his own trial. He'd become a liability so Gant made it his business to drag Miles' name through the dirt and make his position at the Prosecutor's Office untenable - first by implicating him in the murder and later by calling his judgement into question. Ironically, he reflected now, regardless of Gant's motives, it was probably no more than he deserved.

Gant had cornered him outside his office, the evening after the first day in court. _"It's time we had a little talk, Worthy."_ The leather-clad hand that gripped his right arm was powerful and large. Miles was not a small man, but in comparison to Gant, even Gumshoe looked like a weakling. He'd tried to shrug the man off, disgusted in equal parts by the uninvited physical contact and the man himself, but Gant's grip had only tightened as he strode down the corridor, pulling Miles with him. They'd stopped by the elevators, and as Gant's gloved hand hit the call button, his smile widened. _"You don't like elevators, do you, Worthy? Bring back bad memories, do they, boy?"_

The doors slid open as he spoke and Gant stepped forward. Miles didn't know where he got the strength from, but as he realised Gant's intention, his left hand slammed against the wall and he pushed backwards, finally releasing himself from the man's grasp. His heart was pounding and he could feel the blood rushing in his ears, but Gant just laughed. _"I wonder if anyone would find it strange, if you were found dead one morning, trapped in this elevator with a gun, hm? Ho ho!"_ He clapped his hands with amusement at his own joke, and then levelled his gaze on Miles once more, all traces of humour banished. _"Listen to me, Worthy - you're finished. Wrighto won't save you this time."_ As the doors closed and Gant's face was obscured, Miles sagged against the wall, trying to control his breathing, embarrassed by his own vulnerability.

After that, he'd known for sure that he would not survive the case - either literally or figuratively, dependant on Gant's whim - but he'd seen out the trial regardless. Somehow, having Phoenix Wright facing him from across the courtroom had given him the resolution he needed to continue. He wished he could claim that he'd done it simply because it was right, just like his father would have done. But a large part of it grew out of resentment for the situation that Gant had placed him in, and that part he owed to Von Karma, who had taught him that revenge was an act of honour. Wright and Lana Skye had tried to prove otherwise, but in his heart, he knew that it was not solely justice he'd been seeking, but also retribution.

"_What happened in this trial can either make or break you as a prosecutor."_

A grim smile crossed Miles' lips as he recalled those words. _Indeed. But I don't think you really imagined that it would be the latter, did you, Wright?_

Increasingly, he was finding it difficult to distinguish his own thoughts from those that his mentor had dripped into his head over the years. Before his trial, it would never have occurred to him to try, and now that it did, he found that he couldn't. The line between Miles Edgeworth and Manfred Von Karma was so blurred that he had begun to second-guess and question every decision. He couldn't do his job anymore - that had become clear to him on the last day of the trial during his single-minded pursuit of Gant. He'd done it once, and now it would be even easier to do it again. Gant's words on that day had been true, and he knew it. If he continued on, one day he would make the same choices, the same decisions, and end up as corrupt and evil as that man. It was a path he could not escape if he stayed in the Prosecutor's Office.

He'd known when he told Phoenix Wright that they would talk later that it was a lie. Even as he spoke the words, he could feel the edges of the stiff, folded paper in his pocket. Later that day he would leave the note in a manila envelope on his desk. He knew it would only be found when someone finally wondered why he had not returned to work after the weekend. His cowardice had known no bounds.

He looked down at the fast-flowing river once more, easily accessible over the low parapet. There was no one else within sight on the embankment. _It would be so easy to jump. If I really wanted to._

Immediately after leaving the office that Friday, he'd put his plan into action. He left Pess with the lady that always fostered him when Miles took business trips abroad. He told her that he didn't know when he would be back or whether he would send for Pess later – she had not been curious. She loved Pess almost as much as he did himself and he trusted that she would be discreet. Pess had watched him go with his calm, slightly inquisitive eyes, while Miles fought to keep a smile on his face and pretend that this time was like all the others and that he would be back in a week.

He'd arranged his affairs on the Saturday, leaving his apartment in the care of an agent. Then he'd driven his distinctive red sports car to the airport and bought a ticket for the first available flight to London. He knew the car would be reported and he knew Gumshoe would try to track him down, but he'd deal with that later.

All he'd taken with him was a change of clothes, toiletries, and his personal papers - including his German passport, in the name of Miles Von Karma. Manfred had given him the passport while he was at college and living in Germany. He had no idea where it had come from or how Von Karma had acquired it, since there had never been a formal adoption. He supposed that the man must have pulled some very important strings. Miles had never mentioned the passport to anyone else, but he had kept it in case it proved useful.

When he boarded the plane, he had no plans other than to get away, to find space to decide what to do next. The note he had left would be true whatever he decided. There was nothing for him in Los Angeles anymore. The career that he had devoted his life to was based on a lie, and outside that career was a void. He would kill the Miles Edgeworth that he had become, one way or another. He had to. He knew now that however it had to end, there was no going back on the journey he had started when he first stood opposite Phoenix Wright in court.

It had already been dusk when he landed at Heathrow and took the Underground into the city. It was a couple of years since he had last been in London, but he had spent time there during his year at Cambridge University and on numerous business trips, so he knew it well. He knew that it would be easy to get to mainland Europe with his German passport should he wish to, and from there, he could disappear from view. _But where to_? He frowned. Miles spoke two languages fluently and three more to a reasonable degree. All he had to do was decide the best course of action, but the effort of trying to consider his future, alone, seemed like an impossible burden after so many wrong choices in the past.

His weary reverie was interrupted by a group of tourists who pushed past him suddenly, huddling under a large golf umbrella and giggling over a sodden _A-Z_ as they hurried to get out of the rain. "Pardon, Monsieur!" called out one of the men, with a cheerful and apologetic smile.

He watched after them for a while until they disappeared from view, and was suddenly aware of how cold it was and how wet he had become in the light but persistent rain. Shivering, he realised that his hands and feet were numb, and his wool overcoat now looked more silver than black as it glistened with moisture under the amber glow of the lamps. With a last thoughtful look across the Thames, Miles turned and walked back towards Waterloo Station.

He took the Jubilee Line straight back to his lodgings. No one gave him a second glance, and Miles found it a relief to be anonymous; just one more tourist fleeing the rain in the Underground tunnels, counting the stations on the map above the door until he reached his stop.

He had checked into a small hotel near St James' Palace that he always favoured when in London – it was exclusive and discreet as well as being convenient for several Underground lines. Fortunately, the reception staff had recognised him from previous trips, and at this time of the year, they had rooms to spare at the weekend. No one questioned his request to pay cash or commented on his casual appearance – the glances he received, at least the ones he saw, were invariably of studied courtesy. Sometimes, Miles reflected dryly, it paid dividends to have a reputation as a stuck-up jerk.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, he wondered, not for the first time since yesterday, if his disappearance had yet been noticed and if so, how it had been greeted back in Los Angeles. Miles had no doubt that the press would have a field day. There would probably be relief in the Prosecutor's Office as the news would distract people from the accusations of evidence tampering and provide a convenient scapegoat. He knew that the note would be very conveniently leaked, and that the supposed suicide of the Demon Prosecutor would be tabloid fare in Los Angeles for months to come. He had no doubt that even if he had chosen to stay, his life and those of his father and mentor would have been raked over repeatedly through the duration of any official inquiry. At least, this way, he wouldn't have to see it, or deal with the whispers, the cameras, the suspicion, and the pity.

He was sure that Gumshoe would already be looking for him if the note had been found. _And Wright…_ He hesitated for a second before taking the next step and his hand unconsciously tightened on the banister. It was difficult to picture how the defence attorney might receive the news. Miles was in no doubt that he would take it as a personal betrayal. Over the past couple of months, Wright had made it obvious that he wanted to be reconciled, and it had not escaped Miles' attention that his name had been absent from the court dockets since December.

He had to admit that despite his misgivings, he had begun to think of Wright as… if not quite a friend, certainly as someone whose judgement could be trusted. But underlying that had been the conviction that he was not a man that deserved Wright's friendship; that perhaps he was not the man that Wright thought he was at all.

"_I think you changed too much, Edgeworth."_

Miles did not trust himself sufficiently to declare himself a friend to anyone, least of all the man that had saved his life. And so he had lied in the defendant's lobby that day, after the trial.

At the door of his room, he pulled out his wallet and flipped out the keycard, realising that he could barely feel his fingers. Once inside, he removed his wet coat and hung it on the back of a door to dry. The rain had soaked through the seams of the shoulders to his shirt, and his hair clung wetly to his face. Stripping off the garment, he scowled. _If I keep this up, that note will end up coming true sooner than I anticipated._

Taking yesterday's open bottle of Chablis out of the refrigerator and grabbing a glass from the bureau, he flopped into an oversized leather armchair with a sigh. Pulling up his legs, he willed the feeling back into his cold feet and hands; sipping the wine and savouring the warmth of the alcohol on his lips. On the table next to him were his cellphone and his old leather address book, and he frowned at them before looking away.

Even if he were only to stay in Europe for a short time, he had to find employment - that much was obvious. He had a reasonable amount of money in his European bank account, but it wouldn't last forever and finding employment was easier said than done. He didn't trust himself to do any work that would involve standing up in court, but having devoted himself to the study of law since childhood, his options were limited. He also needed to find something quietly and with the minimum of fuss, somewhere where he would not be known or stand out in a crowd. The last thing he wanted right now was for the media to come knocking at his door.

Again his eyes flicked to the table beside him, and finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the address book and flipped through it. Locating the section that contained up-to-date entries for people he had been at University with in England, he looked through the list of names and numbers. He'd been putting this moment off since yesterday in the hope that an alternative solution would present itself, but it was against his nature to procrastinate, even over the worst of choices.

Von Karma had always taught him to use any means necessary to achieve a guilty verdict; that those who failed in the search for perfection sacrificed their honour and deserved only to be exploited. But now, knowingly following any path that might have met the approval of his mentor chilled him to the bone. On the other hand, what other option did he have, at this stage?

He poured himself another glass of wine and then drank it far too quickly. It was an entirely foolish thing to do, but somehow he hoped it would make his decision easier. He sat there for a while longer and finished the bottle, with his cellphone and address book on his lap. Finally, with an air of resignation, he chose a number and dialled it, then closed his eyes and twisted the ribbon page marker of the address book tightly between his fingers.

Within two hours, Miles had secured a position in a small contract law office in Paris starting in ten days – no questions asked. It was almost perfect. The Von Karma family maintained a small apartment there, and his French was certainly good enough to get by in a business environment.

Even better, he hadn't needed to make any direct threats – he'd just made conversation. He reflected on the weakness of a politician who could be so easily persuaded merely by hearing a name from their past at the end of the telephone.

_Is this how Redd White went about controlling Los Angeles? Is this how Gant and Von Karma called in favours when they needed to get a conviction?_

Miles was surprised how easy he'd found it, even through the fog of mild intoxication. He was chilled by the sense of power he'd felt just for those few seconds, knowing that he could ruin a career, a family, with just a few carefully chosen words about a shared indiscretion.

"_Worthy… you and me... we're the same…"_

Gant's voice mocked him, and suddenly he felt sick to the stomach. He only just made it into the bathroom before he vomited. He ran the tap for a while and splashed cold water on his face. Then, gripping the sides of the sink, his knuckles as white as the porcelain, he looked at himself in the mirror. If he'd thought that it was impossible to loathe himself any more than he had yesterday when he left Los Angeles, he'd been mistaken.

_I don't even know who I am anymore._

* * *

Miles awoke just after six from a fitful sleep. He was curled on the sofa, still shirtless, and he shivered a little as he became aware of the February chill in the morning air and on his skin. Sitting up, he stretched cramped muscles and rubbed his eyes. Last night's empty wine bottle was still on the table and he looked at it with some disgust as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. He felt tired and grubby.

He opted for a hot shower before ordering tea, and noticed that his hands were shaking as he fumbled with the buttons on his jeans. The last two or three days were starting to take their toll – too little sleep, too little food, too much stress. It occurred to Miles that he couldn't actually remember when he'd last eaten, and the thought made him scowl at his own carelessness. He was well aware of his own tendency to forget even the basic necessities when he was distracted by work or pressure – in fact, sometimes he pushed the boundaries of his endurance intentionally, having found over the years that a certain amount of deprivation made his mind sharper and his reactions faster. But usually, he made a controlled effort to ensure that his eccentricities in that regard never got to the point of negatively affecting him physically or mentally. _Today, you will eat breakfast, you bloody fool._

Having to look at himself in the mirror while he shaved didn't make him feel any better – it was hardly a pretty sight. A faint smile crossed his face as he envisioned turning up to his new employment dressed in crumpled jeans and looking like a raving lunatic. _I'll be lucky if they let me into the country looking like this, let alone through the doors of a law office._

After changing into his last clean shirt and eating a light breakfast, Miles felt marginally more human. He used the hotel phone to call first his tailor and secondly the housekeeper of the Paris apartment. Then he packed his bag, checked out of the hotel, and walked over to Jermyn Street to order the basics of a new wardrobe.

In the afternoon, he took the train out to North London. George greeted him effusively. If the tailor was surprised to hear from Miles with only a couple of hours notice he gave no indication of it – he was well used to the eccentricities of his clients, and Miles suspected his own were minor compared to some of the people who had crossed George's threshold over the years.

Miles had been having suits made here and sent to Los Angeles for several years now after a friend at University had recommended the establishment to him. It wasn't a traditional location to find a gentleman's tailor in London, but George was Savile Row trained, and he particularly appreciated clients whose tastes tended to the individual. It was safe to say that Miles' tastes fell into that bracket most of the time, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it – he treated the suits he wore both in court and socially as a costume - each carefully designed to project an image of flamboyant confidence. His father had been too old-fashioned to shop in high street stores and 'off-the-peg' wasn't a phrase that he'd ever encountered in the Von Karma house. When he started university at fifteen, he'd been somewhat surprised to find that formal clothes could be acquired by means other than a bespoke tailor - but even after that astounding revelation, Miles was still yet to purchase a suit ready-made.

At George's, pleasure always came before business, so they drank dark, Greek coffee and ate honey-drenched biscuits while conversing about Los Angeles. George was far too polite to ask why his client was in Europe or why he needed new suits so quickly, so the conversation stayed within comfortable limits and Miles felt at ease. He hadn't realised until very recently how much his circle of acquaintance had shrunk during his time in the USA. First the study for his bar exam, then the constant workload from both his own cases and those in which he was acting as Von Karma's assistant left him with virtually no time to himself. He'd barely even kept in touch with his sister, let alone anyone beyond the family, so it was strangely relaxing to pass the time with someone who had been a fixture in his life for so many years.

The fitting lasted into the late afternoon and by the time Miles took his leave, it was already fully dark. After a quick glance at his watch, he took a taxi directly to the Eurostar terminal at St Pancras.

Waiting to board, he sat on one of the red, metal benches and took his cellphone out of his pocket. It was unthinkable that his note had not been found by now. His jaw tightened as he pressed the power button and waited for the network to recover his connection. The phone beeped reproachfully - there were several text and voice messages, all from Gumshoe. He deleted them all, then sat with the phone in his hand, staring at the display. _Well? What did I expect? Hordes of well-wishers?_

He scrolled through his contacts until he reached the number for his sister. _Has Gumshoe called her?_ The thought of Franziska receiving news of his suicide note and possibly believing that he was already dead made his heart lurch. Despite being unrelated by blood and considerable differences in age and temperament, he and his sister had grown close during their shared childhood in the Von Karma house. His thumb hesitated over her number. He had a sudden desire to speak to her and hear her voice, but they had barely spoken in five years and he reminded himself that she had completely cut off all contact from him in the wake of her father's conviction for murder. _I can't believe I've made such a mess of this – of everything._ With a sigh, he switched the phone off and fell back into a dull, reverie of waiting.

He used his German passport and spoke in German throughout the journey. No one at customs or passport control in either London or Paris gave him more than a casual glance.

By the time he walked out of Gare du Nord and hailed a cab, he was sure that he was free.


	2. All You Leave Behind

**Part Two: All You Leave Behind (Paris and Hanover, February)**

"_Let the sin go  
__For all you leave behind...  
__Let the sin go."  
__- PARADISE LOST_

It was dark and raining when the cab pulled up outside the old apartment building in the 6e Arrondissement. Slick sidewalks reflected the light from the lamps and the street was devoid of pedestrians. A small canopy shielded the front door of the building, so Miles took shelter from the downpour while he fumbled through his pockets to find the right keys. Few of the apartments showed any light; most of them were holiday rentals, and at this time of the year, they often stood empty. The Von Karmas had maintained a studio apartment there for years, as Manfred preferred to avoid hotels when travelling. It was a familiar bolthole for Miles, too - he had stayed here during his final year at university, using it as a convenient retreat for study outside of term time.

He finally found the pair of keys that he needed and let himself into the lobby, leaving wet footprints on the black and white tiles. The building seemed deserted, and as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, he hoped that the housekeeper had picked up his telephone message from yesterday.

The short note pinned beneath the brass apartment number confirmed that she had, and he crumpled it into his pocket as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, feeling along the wall for the light switch that he remembered should be there.

Once inside, Miles let the door shut behind him and glanced around. The apartment was much as he remembered it; the main living space dominated by French windows which afforded a clear view across the neighbourhood to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The furnishings were sparse but expensive, in keeping with the usual Von Karma style, and the law books he had left behind seven years ago still filled the shelf above the desk.

He threw his bag onto the large iron bed, removed his coat, and flopped gracelessly onto the sofa with a sigh. Rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing in his head, Miles wondered if there were any painkillers in the bathroom. He supposed not, since they were unlikely to feature on the list of essentials that the housekeeper generally provided – _normal people come here to relax, not to be stressed_.

Miles had never really become accustomed to travelling, which, on reflection, was ironic, considering how much of it he had done in his life. But it didn't seem to matter how frequently he used them; metros, trains and aeroplanes caused him a faint sense of discomfort that showed no sign of receding. He supposed it was a mild form of claustrophobia, combined with his aversion to being in the close, physical proximity of strangers. It was always impossible for him to relax, and he was never able to find distraction in the mediocre entertainment on offer. He usually passed the hours working, or staring with unseeing eyes out of the windows, wilfully lost in his own thoughts.

Until last year, that had presented no problems - he'd always been reliving a trial, a victory, a new addition to his record of perfection - and these usually made the journey pass quickly. But now, his thoughts were far less comfortable, and infinitely more tiring.

He closed his eyes, put his head back, and willed his mind to a blank, just for a moment. The apartment's location in a relatively quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of the Latin Quarter made it conducive to study, but at the same time, it had always afforded him more personal freedom than the family home in Hanover. There had been an unspoken rule during his year at Cambridge. Any vices he cared to indulge in were to have no impact on the Von Karma name or the family honour, so this had been his destination for a large portion of his vacation time. He still remembered with some fondness his evenings spent here, sitting by the window, listening to the sounds of the city, and studying into the early hours; sometimes alone, sometimes not.

The faint sounds of traffic outside broke the silence, and he wondered if this would be where he could rediscover his purpose. In the past, Paris had always been a city of promise, a place that he had regarded as an oasis where he could relax and enjoy some measure of freedom. He was sure now that any freedom he recalled had merely been an illusion granted by Von Karma for his own purpose, but it had felt real enough at the time. For the first time since the beginning of Lana Skye's trial, he allowed himself to hope that he might make peace with himself again. But even as the thought surfaced, another voice mocked him at the back of his mind.

"_Von Karmas do not hope or dream. They simply achieve."_

* * *

Two days after his acquittal, Miles had returned to the Prosecutor's Office. Two days of constant self-examination and brooding had finally driven him from his apartment and towards the only distraction that he could think of: his work. It was all he had left.

It had been too early in the morning to encounter anyone else in the building at that time of year, and he was grateful for it. Walking down the long, wood-panelled corridors from the stairwell to his office, he had no choice but to pass Manfred's door. The dark mahogany and the brass fittings were now obscured by crime scene tape, in a stark reminder of how much Miles' life had changed in a few scant days. He forced himself to walk past without flinching, without hesitating, even though there was no one to see. _If I can do it once, it'll be easier next time._

Eyes fixed firmly on the plush carpeting, knuckles tight and gripping his briefcase, he had done it. But when he reached his own office, he had to pause for a moment, forehead resting on the heavy wood until his hands were steady enough to unlock the door. Still, he felt a small sense of achievement that he would have deemed pathetic in any other circumstances. Today, it felt as if he'd walked through fire.

He had locked the door behind him, taken off his jacket, and placed it with his briefcase on the sofa. The neatly stacked files on his desk were exactly as they had been a week ago. The chess pieces were in their same positions, the sofa cushions still in slight disarray from the nap he'd taken before going to meet with Robert Hammond. Even the red morning light that bathed the office reminded him of the sunset the last time he'd been here. He felt an odd sense of disconnection - it was as if he had stepped back in time and the previous few days had been just a bad dream.

Switching on the stereo, he made himself a cup of tea, gazing out at the reassuringly familiar view across the city as the strains of Mahler's 6th Symphony quietly filled the office. Then he seated himself at his desk and pulled down a file from the array in front of him. It was a simple case - an attempted armed robbery due for trial in the New Year. He already knew the notes inside out, but settled down to read them again anyway, determined to reestablish some direction, some sense of normality to his life.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when he heard the voice.

_"Miles."_

He recognised it immediately, but it was simply… impossible. He froze at his desk, eyes on the papers in front of him, unable to look up. He felt his pulse spiralling out of control and his breath catch in his throat.

_"Look at me, Miles."_

"_You're not here,"_ he responded, but in his ears, his own voice was barely more than a whisper.

The chuckle that greeted that remark was light, with an undercurrent of genuine amusement that he had once welcomed whenever he managed to elicit it. He didn't even need to look to picture the accompanying smirk.

"_Don't be foolish, Miles. Listen to yourself. It has only been a week, and you are already talking nonsense."_

The voice had changed position, was slightly behind him, and he felt a trickle of ice down his spine. _He's looking out of the window_, Miles thought, irrationally.

_"This isn't real. Leave me alone."_

There was a long pause. Miles dared to breathe

"_I devoted fifteen years of my life to your education. I taught you everything you know." _Suddenly, the voice moved closer._ "I wonder… will you forget me as eagerly as you forgot your father… _Prosecutor _Edgeworth_He could feel cool breath against his ear. It revolted him, but he couldn't move.

"_I will never leave you alone, Miles. You know that." _He knew what was coming, because this was a dream, and part of him wanted to feel it, more than anything in the world. He shut his eyes slowly with a soft sigh as those long fingers closed on his shoulder. But even as they did, another part of his mind recoiled in horror and he woke up, jerked to his feet, hands flat on the desk, heart hammering wildly. When he finally forced himself to look over his shoulder, there was no one there. The office door was still locked, and the morning sun had flooded the room with light.

The suit hanging on the wall caught his eye, and half-memories crackled through his head in a crescendo of white noise until, in one angry, frustrated gesture, he swept the contents of his desk to the floor. Papers fluttered wildly, the china teacup smashed into pieces. He stared at the suit for a while longer, then sank back down into his chair with his head in his hands.

It had been fifteen years since he had felt so completely alone.

* * *

Over the next two days, Miles deliberately forced himself to relax, reacquainting himself with Paris and taking leisurely brunches at Ladurée. Being in a new city and having some kind of plan seemed to have given him room to breathe. The only thing that had really changed was his physical location, but the sense of claustrophobia he had been running from felt less keen, less desperate than it had a few days ago.

He realised now that it had only been sheer force of will that had kept him working and living with a semblance of normality for the two months after his trial – he'd just been too stubborn to accept that his life was rapidly spinning out of control. The day of his release, he and Wright had visited his father's grave – the memory was still a raw one, tinged with guilt and regret. After that, the defence attorney had cornered him in the Courthouse and backed him into sharing a drink once or twice, but apart from those occasions, he had barely spoken to anyone outside the Prosecutor's Office. The only thing he'd been able to do to keep focussed was to bury himself in work, taking on Manfred's outstanding caseload in addition to his own, and spending longer and longer in the office. He'd been an accident waiting to happen, but the only person who had noticed was Damon Gant.

On his third night in Paris, Miles dreamed of Franziska. It began like all his other nightmares – the flickering light, the feeling of the walls closing in, and the desperate gasping for breath. Nothing that he was aware of had triggered it, but it came all the same. When he awoke, it was into another dream - he was back in Hanover, in his childhood bed, with his sister firmly holding him until his night terrors passed, murmuring to him in German and scolding him for his foolishness. The second time he woke, he bolted upright with a start, heart pounding, disoriented temporarily by the unfamiliar bed and the distant sounds of the city. A photograph of his sister taken the day she passed her bar exam at age thirteen smiled down at him triumphantly from the wall opposite.

He didn't try to go back to sleep. Experience had taught him that it was a vain endeavour in the wake of his nightmares. He made coffee, and settled on the sofa with one of his German legal books from the shelf above the desk.

After breakfast, he called the Von Karma family attorney. His father's belongings were still in storage somewhere, and he knew that there were investments made on his behalf by Von Karma from the proceeds of his father's will and the sale of his childhood home in Los Angeles. All the paperwork was in Hanover. He had not intended to deal with this until much later, if at all, but since he'd woken from his dream the previous night, his sister had occupied his thoughts.

Miles knew, even as he made the call to the airline, that it was probably a stupid idea; that she was unlikely to welcome him, might not even be there. But he did it anyway. He just needed to see her, one more time.

* * *

It felt comfortable to be back in Germany. After so many years and Franziska's ruthlessly childish insistence, Miles spoke the language like a native and understood its customs and manners perfectly. Stepping into the bustle of the airport terminal in Hanover felt like coming home.

Often in the past two months, he had wondered why he'd ever left, but in his heart, he already knew the answer – there had never been a choice. It was clear to Miles now why his sister had been allowed to build a career as a prosecuting prodigy in Hamburg, while he'd been taken to the USA. Manfred Von Karma would never have let him stay in Germany after so carefully preparing the stage in Los Angeles for the final act of his revenge.

He hired a car at the airport and drove into town. As he'd expected, the family attorney was as efficient as usual, and their business was concluded in under an hour. Acquiring the details of the investments and the keys to a storage facility near LA, where the contents of his father's house and office were located, was merely a formality. But then, it wasn't really why he had come here.

The tree-lined roads between Hanover and the Von Karma estate passed by in a blur of familiarity, the late frost on the bare branches sparkling in the bright winter sunshine. Now, it felt as if he had never been away, but that sense of homecoming contrasted sharply with his memories of the first time he'd made this journey fifteen years ago.

It had been full summer, then. He was ten years old, sitting silently in the rear of the big black car, fists tightly clenched on his knees, staring indifferently out of the windows at a world tinted grey. Still traumatised by the death of his father, he was consumed by doubts about his new life and homesick for something that he could no longer put a name to, but that still caught at the back of his memory and would not go away.

* * *

His recollection of the first two or three weeks after being rescued from the dark was hazy, even now.

A strange bed; the smell of antiseptic and floor polish; ceiling tiles with swirling patterns of punched holes. He had started counting the holes in the tile directly above him many times, but never recalled finishing. Snatches of concerned conversation drifted in from the edges of his consciousness _"Poor little soul." "He's never asked for his dad. Do you think he knows?" "There's a great aunt, somewhere, but she's infirm."_

Later, they had sent in a kind but nervous young woman, who played with her hair and couldn't look him in the eyes, to tell him about his father. By then, though, he already knew that his father was dead. The averted eyes, the half-finished sentences and the hushed voices were all familiar to him. _"It's alright to cry,"_ she said. But he didn't.

Police and prosecutors had filed in with appropriate words of condolence, hoping that he could give them more information than what they already knew, and confusing him with questions about a missing bullet. But his memory failed him and all he could tell them was about the earthquake, the flickering lights, the darkness, and an argument half-remembered. The rest was a blank.

His father had lost the case that day, and it had been a tough one. The defence attorney worked late into every night during the second half of December, and Miles was mostly left to his own devices. He spent several evenings at Phoenix's house, and many more sitting in his room playing with action figures and reading books while his father remained locked in his study.

Miles was sure that his father's guilt about being busy over the Christmas holidays was the reason they had attended the trial together on the 28th. The usual sitter who came by to watch him during school vacations was away visiting a relative. Phoenix's mother made it clear that he was always welcome there, but Miles desperately wanted to watch his father in court. He begged on Christmas Day to be allowed, as an extra present, and his father reluctantly agreed.

As they had stepped into the elevator after the trial, the last to leave, Gregory Edgeworth had put his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed it gently. It was a gesture that never failed to make Miles' heart swell, knowing that for a moment, he was the object of his father's attention and approval. His father's smile was weary, and Miles did his best to respond with a happier one to cheer him up. That was the last clear recollection he had of his father - tired, worn, and defeated - but still with a smile that sparked in his eyes to reassure his son that all was well. It was an image that had remained burned into his memory ever since.

* * *

Miles stopped the car outside the huge iron gates that guarded the entrance to the Von Karma estate. He identified himself to the security cameras and was surprised when he heard the gate mechanism grind into motion a few moments later.

He had half-expected Franziska to order the staff to lock him out should he try to visit. _It would be just like her._ But perhaps she was not at home – he knew that she kept an apartment in Hamburg and spent the bulk of her time there to be close to her office. He wondered if she had changed, in the six years that they had been apart. He wondered how much _he_ had changed since he had last seen her face, watching him impassively from an upstairs window as he left for a new life on another continent.

* * *

It had been much later - months after the man accused of killing his father was acquitted - that Miles met Gregory Edgeworth's last courtroom opponent. Miles was still at the hospital, sitting at the table in the playroom, reading one of the law books that someone had brought him from his father's house. He had been kept in for evaluation and monitoring, but after six months, they didn't seem to know what to do with him. He soon learned the correct things to say to the counsellors so that they left him alone. Away from their sessions, he withdrew into his books and into his own head. He had nowhere to go, no one who could visit. And then Manfred Von Karma came.

Miles recognised him immediately, of course – he was impossible to forget – tall, gaunt, with an old-fashioned style of attire and piercing blue eyes. Miles had only seen him once before - at the trial on the day his father died. The two attorneys had argued across the courtroom, and he could recall anger, violence and raised voices. But like almost everything else from that day, it was vague, sketchy, and the words spoken were indistinct, as if being heard underwater.

Miles stood up, shyly, to acknowledge his visitor. Von Karma introduced himself with a slight bow of the head, clicking his heels in a very formal way. Then he seated himself in a chair opposite, manicured hands resting openly on the table. Those piercing eyes scanned Miles, then the book he was reading, and Miles thought he saw a twitch of approval. _"Criminal Law? Excellent choice of reading matter. But I would expect no less from the son of Gregory Edgeworth. I only wish your father had been a prosecutor, so that we might have been colleagues instead of enemies."_

It was the first time that anyone apart from his counsellors and the police had spoken to him directly about his father. Everyone else avoided the subject, letting their sentences end in silent embarrassment. But this man was different. He looked straight at Miles when he spoke. He didn't treat him like a child or an invalid. For the first time in months, Miles felt a spark of interest in something other than his books, as his eyes took in the turquoise tiepin, the stern eyebrows, and the faint scar that curved down one cheek.

_"I wanted to extend my condolences to you, on the death of your father. And I wanted to apologise on behalf of the Prosecutor's Office for that unforgivable sham of a trial."_

Miles' eyes dropped back to his book. _"I… still don't really understand what happened," _he said in a small voice.

_"What happened is that a guilty man will remain unpunished because a defence attorney was allowed to spout a pack of lies in court,"_ Von Karma spat the words. _"I would never have allowed that to happen. The prosecutor deserves to be fired. Your father deserved better, don't you agree?"_

There was a pause, and when Miles looked up again, the man was still watching him, impassively. He felt himself blushing at the scrutiny. _"Y-yes. Of course."_

Von Karma inclined his head, very slightly, seeming satisfied with the answer.

* * *

The long driveway curved away out of sight, dusted with half-frozen snow and lined with leafless trees. Miles rolled the car forward, easing it up the icy slope until the front of the building came into view. He still found the Von Karma house an imposing sight, just as he had that first time, fifteen years ago. Built centuries ago as a hunting lodge, the house had looked enormous to him when he was a child. Today, it didn't look quite so daunting, but it was still impressive; the wintry dressing of ice and frost giving the building a slightly fairytale appearance, as if it belonged on a greeting card or in a holiday brochure.

He exhaled shakily, realising that he had been holding his breath. Irrationally, he half-expected to see Manfred standing on the porch - coat billowing in the breeze, leaning on his cane and surrounded by his hunting dogs - just as he always had when Miles arrived back from Cambridge or Paris. Miles had never known, until he stepped out of the car, whether he would be greeted with approbation or disapproval. Those long seconds of suspense before Von Karma either acknowledged him or turned away were as vivid to him now as ever, along with the memory of how desperately he had hoped for the former, and dreaded the latter.

Manfred Von Karma had been completely different to his father in temperament - stricter, harsher, often aloof and distant. But he had provided a home, education, and support for over a decade, in which Miles had struggled daily to emulate his mentor's confidence and had aspired to his strength of will. Even since his trial, where it had been made abundantly clear that Von Karma's motives had never been altruistic, Miles could not help but think of this house as his home. Now, however, that thought brought a rush of shame on its heels as he wondered how he could ever have been so completely deceived.

* * *

Von Karma had finally looked away, inspecting the room and noting every detail. But now he turned his eyes once more onto Miles' face. _"I have been speaking to your great aunt. I understand that she is unable to offer you a home, but is unwilling for you to be placed in the care of the state. I agree with her. I have reviewed your academic record, and I can see that your father spent a lot of time teaching you about the law." _He tapped the book in front of Miles with a long forefinger. _"It would be an offence to his memory to allow that education to be squandered."_

Miles just stared back, uncomprehendingly.

_"I can help you to become a great lawyer like your father. Your great aunt has given me permission to ask you if you would like to come and live in my house, in Germany. It would be a new start, away from the bad memories. I will teach you everything I know. All I ask for in return is that you devote yourself to your studies without question."_

Miles' eyes widened. _"But – aren't you a prosecutor?"_

"_Yes."_ Von Karma's eyes did not flicker. They pinned Miles where he sat, looked at him and through him. _"I will teach you to be the best prosecuting attorney in the world. One day, your father's case will be reopened. Then, it will be up to you to ensure that justice is served."_

_"But… I want to be a defence attorney…"_

_"A worthy ambition for a child. But you are no longer a child, Miles Edgeworth. You are your father's only son, and as such, you have a duty to his memory above all else. And that duty is to equip yourself to seek justice for his murder, not to defend the kind of men that committed this crime."_

Von Karma rose from his chair with the casual air of someone who had merely stated what should be obvious to anyone. He walked over to the window, calmly observing the view outside, hands clasped behind his back.

Miles sat there, slightly bewildered, eyes downcast, unsure what to do. Germany seemed like a million miles away, and even as numbed as he was, a twinge of uncertainty nagged him at the prospect of abandoning the idea of following in his father's footsteps. But perhaps this man – this lawyer – was right. Perhaps he did have a greater duty now.

"_Will you – help me to do that, sir?"_ He asked, without raising his eyes from the book in front of him.

Unexpectedly, Miles felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and when he glanced up, surprised, Manfred Von Karma was looking down at him with a half-smile and a nod. For a moment, Miles' last memory of his father flashed through his mind, and that familiar gesture of approval that he had always sought and never thought he would feel again brought an equally familiar and almost painful response from his heart.

_"I accept, sir. Thank you."_

_"Excellent. We will leave for Germany at the end of the week. I will make arrangements with your aunt."_

* * *

Miles waited in the car for a while, scrutinising the house. He could see no one at the windows, and not a flicker of life in the grounds. Finally, he made the decision, stepping out of the car and striding towards the front door with more confidence than he felt.

Fifteen years ago, his feet had sunk awkwardly into the deep gravel as he'd tried to manoeuvre his too-large suitcase from the back seat, gaping up at the impossibly steep frontage of the house. A servant had stepped forward to try and help him, but he stubbornly refused to relinquish his hold. The case was old and battered, but it contained everything he owned, and his fear of losing those last few connections to his old home, his old life, his father, was keen. To Miles, then, the suitcase was the only tangible thing he had left to cling on to as he found himself adrift and sinking outside this strange house, in a foreign country.

Now, Miles pulled the iron chain beside the heavy wooden door and heard the bell ring inside the house. While he waited, he removed his leather gloves and shoved them into his coat pockets.

Eventually, a butler that he didn't recognise opened the door. There had always been a high turnover of staff at the Von Karma house, so he was never surprised to find new servants in residence. Unfortunately, very few of those employed ever reached the demanded standards of perfection, and so he remembered a constant parade of housekeepers, butlers, cooks, gardeners and maids throughout his childhood and teenage years. This butler clearly knew Miles, though, greeting him formally with a half bow and a stiff nod of the head.

"Herr Edgeworth. Kommen Sie bitte herein."

Miles shrugged off his coat and handed it to the butler without a backward glance as he entered. The vast entrance hall was as intimidating as ever – a vaulted ceiling that soared to the full height of the house, bare stone floors, and dark panelled walls. Portraits depicting generations of ancestors stared down forbiddingly, interspersed with the mounted heads of a variety of animals that had been unfortunate enough to encounter them, and watercolour views of old Hanover that proudly illustrated the Von Karma family heritage. Very little had changed in the fifteen years since he'd first stood here, lost and alone with no one to guide him.

Back then he had halted, open-mouthed, just inside the door, forgetting for a moment to keep a tight grip on his suitcase. Even in his state of confusion, the room impressed him with its grandeur. The Von Karma house was not opulent, but everything in it looked old, expensive and oversized. His father's house had been small, cosy and homely, by contrast. This was like a castle in one of the old horror movies that his father liked to watch on cable sometimes. Miles imagined a fanged and caped figure might be standing on the gallery and his eyes involuntarily followed that thought to look upwards. The grandiose sweep of the staircase made him feel smaller and even more insignificant, and right at the top, he caught sight of a white-haired toddler peeping out from behind the dark grey skirts of a forbidding nanny. This brought even more confusion, as Von Karma had not mentioned any other children when they had spoken at the hospital.

Miles had thought she was a dream for many days until he encountered her again on his way to the library for his first lesson with Von Karma. Their eyes met with shared curiosity as they passed in the hallway, but he didn't dare to speak, as the nanny was in attendance and fixed him with an ominous glare.

Today, the gallery was empty, and the butler returned, breaking into his thoughts.

"Fräulein Von Karma is in the study. Please wait here."

_So she is at home. I suppose I should be grateful that she didn't tell them to set the dogs on me. _A fire was burning in the large hearth and he walked over to it to warm himself, placing his hands on the carved stone mantel.

He was doubly impressed now that he had managed to get this far, but still wondered what kind of a reception he could expect from his sister. Miles dared to hope that her allowing him into the house might be a good sign, but he was keenly aware of how many things had changed in both their lives since they had last been together.

In those earliest days, she had just been someone he would glimpse from time to time on the back stairs, always looking like a perfectly dressed doll, always in the company of the nanny. She harangued him in her childish, precise German, but he never understood; just stared, blushed and hurried on by.

But as the years passed and she began to show early signs of the prodigy that she would become, they started to share the lessons that he previously took alone. In a short space of time, they grew close, thrown together in this isolated house, often unattended except for the servants. Manfred Von Karma still undertook work as a prosecutor in Los Angeles and so he was often away, leaving Miles and Franziska with strict regimes of study to be completed in his absence. A private tutor was employed to watch over them and to ensure they each received sufficient instruction in the few other subjects that Von Karma deemed useful to their education. When he was in Germany, he supervised them personally and tested their knowledge daily. When he was not, they tested each other, both keen to win his approval when the next report from their tutor was sent to Los Angeles.

Miles caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the fire. _Not _exactly_ the circumstances in which I had envisaged returning to Hanover._ He and Franziska's endless sibling rivalry had cultivated in both of them a desire to outdo each other in courtroom theatrics and in him the will to return home one day with a dazzling record of perfection from his native country. But that had been six years ago, when they both believed that they could be Von Karma's successor, that they would both be entrusted with his legacy of perfection. When Miles had still hoped that one day, he would be as self-assured and as awe-inspiring as his mentor. Memories from the last day of his trial surfaced, unprompted. _So much for that - and I look as if I haven't slept for a month._

Uncomfortable at meeting his own eyes, he looked around the room. Two schlagers hung from black and white braids next to the fireplace – the fencing swords that he and Von Karma had used when he still lived in Germany. On impulse, he reached out and ran his fingertip lightly along the blade of the nearest one. It was still scalpel-sharp, and left a mark as fine as a paper cut on his skin, bringing back a tangle of memories – the smell of surgical spirit, blood, and stale beer; the metallic taste of sweat, a nauseating echo of panic and aggression.

* * *

He had been fourteen when Von Karma called him to his study and introduced him to Viktor, the dour, scar-faced fencing master who was to become a part of his daily education for the rest of his years in Germany. Miles had never shown any prowess at sport when he was in grade school, and his nervousness of horses had already exasperated Franziska beyond reason as she attempted and failed to teach her little brother to ride.

"I expect you to pay as close attention to this as you do to the law. Consider it as training for the day that you stand up in court and face your enemy. You will practice for an hour every day and you will pay the same regard to your fencing master's words as you do to me and to your tutor."

With that, Von Karma had picked up his quill and returned his attention to the stack of legal papers on his desk. Miles knew well enough after four years that this was a tacit dismissal, but still he hesitated, looking down at his feet.

"_Was there something you wanted to say, Miles?"_ Von Karma had not even looked up from his desk – Miles could still hear the scratching of quill on paper.

_"I… I don't think I'll be very good at it, sir,"_ he said, almost in a whisper.

The scratching stopped. There was silence for a moment, and when he ventured a look upwards to his mentor, that pale blue gaze pierced him with its intensity.

_"Of course you will, Miles. You live as a Von Karma now, and academic fencing is a centuries-old tradition in my family. As a man in this household, it is your duty to uphold it, and I expect you to carry out that duty to the best of your ability. Do not disappoint me."_

And that had been the end of it. The lessons became as much a part of his life as the stacks of law books in his room, and he was admitted to that locked room with the concrete floor in the basement, a target nailed to the wall and the iron-cornered foot lockers full of odd-looking armour. Sometimes, Von Karma came to observe the lessons, standing quietly by the door, arms crossed, never interrupting. Sometimes he would spar with Viktor, both fully masked and only three feet apart, while Miles watched, fascinated by the constant motion of the blades. It was a new dimension to his mentor that awed him in much the same way that watching him in court did.

Miles began to understand its application to his career. He learned how to face an opponent without flinching; how to exercise self-control and to employ misdirection even in the face of bodily fear; and always, always to attack. To his surprise, he found that after a few weeks, he enjoyed it, even had a flair for it, once he learned that most duels were won and lost in the mind before the swords were even raised.

When Miles was accepted into Hanover University at fifteen, Von Karma had insisted that he join a duelling Corps. It was unusual for someone so young to be admitted, but as a powerful, wealthy and lifelong member, Von Karma had a lot of influence. Miles hadn't protested at the time – the compulsory mensur duels he fought in his first year were a small price to pay for the strings he would be able to pull in later life, particularly since he was victorious in all three. He escaped with no scars to tell the tale, the university administration none the wiser, and as a lifelong member of an elite group. Now, he wondered if Von Karma's insistence on the son of an avowed enemy following such a strong family tradition had simply been an expedient method of further isolating him. Miles attended the university as a day student, and the Corps was exclusively male. He had little chance to encounter girls or to experience much outside the confines of the lecture hall, his restricted acquaintance among the Corps, and their rigidly disciplined timetable.

Today, a smile curved across his lips as he considered the irony of that, if it were true, because it had been in the wake of his last mensur that he first confronted the reality of his own sexuality. His memory of it was indistinct – ragged breath that fogged in the cold air of the garden, furtive whispers, awkward kisses, and an urgent need that was anxiously consummated, leaving him breathless and trembling on his knees in the frosted grass.

He didn't remember the boy's name, or if he ever knew it – just an impression of his face and the scent of his cologne. But he remembered the shame that had driven him to confess his sin to Von Karma, standing ramrod-straight in the study, waiting for a condemnation that never came. Instead, there had been silence for a time, agonising seconds of guilt. When his mentor eventually spoke, he was reassuring, regretful, and completely practical. That day marked the first of many lectures Miles received on the subject of duty and sacrifice; on guarding against scandal and blackmail. It was also the first of many talks with Manfred that taught him sex was a commodity to be bought or taken, not shared; that for him, it should only ever be a means of physical gratification, that if friends made you weak, then lovers made you vulnerable – especially if they were of the same gender.

He'd believed it all. Then, he had no reason to question it – an automatic acceptance of Von Karma's advice was ingrained too deeply. Once in Los Angeles, he'd had no time to reconsider it, his personal life diminishing to nothing in the face of his workload and the constant monitoring of his progress by his mentor. Now, he recognised those lessons for what they were, but doubted if he would ever be able to put them aside. Somehow, that doubt brought with it a sense of loss and emptiness that had never troubled him before, although he could not say why or what had triggered it.

* * *

High heels clacking on the stone floors broke into his thoughts and he turned away from the schlagers as the slight but always commanding figure of his sister appeared from the hallway. She looked haughty and angry - but then she always did. She was carrying her whip, and Miles could see that her knuckles were white from gripping the handle. _Rarely a good sign._

"So you are alive still, little brother." Her voice was cold, with an edge of sarcasm, but he was unable to read anything more from her expression. Franziska was younger than him, considerably so. But she had always regarded herself as his older sister, and in many ways, she was. She had always been there – to teach him German, to instruct him in perfection and to wake him from his nightmares. Most of his memories of living here were shared with her. Secretly studying in the middle of the night. Exploring the darkest recesses of the house and daring each other to peek into dusty rooms and empty corners. Playing games of strategy and one-upmanship between study sessions. Sneaking into the library behind their tutor's back and alternately scaring or amusing each other with gothic horrors and tragedies read out loud. He'd always admired her indomitable spirit and had not been in the least surprised when she'd exceeded his own academic success to pass her bar exam at thirteen years of age. But that shared life had ended six years ago, and since her father's conviction for murder, she had refused all attempts at contact. His sense of loss at their estrangement was partly what had brought him to Hanover, but now that he was here, he found himself unsure of what to say.

Miles took a deep breath. "You look well, Franziska". He took a step forward to greet her, but she remained where she was, mouth set in a thin line of disgust.

"How _dare_ you set foot in this house? You have disgraced this family and everything it stands for." She cracked the whip, eyes flashing with a rage as sudden as it was powerful.

Miles understood now why Franziska had let him into the house. She wanted a confrontation, but as tired as he was, he simply didn't have the will or the energy for their usual games. _I made a mistake, coming here so soon._ He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"You haven't changed, Franziska," he said. "Always quick to judge, before you've seen the evidence or heard the testimony."

"You should be begging for my forgiveness, Miles Edgeworth." Her voice was filled with a bitterness that belied her anger. "But that's not why you're here, is it? You've come here to make excuses, to ease your conscience. You say that I 'look well'. Does that make you feel better? And how do you suppose _I_ feel?"

"I don't know, Franziska," he said honestly. "I tried to call. Many times. I wanted to explain. After what happened… I was… confused. I couldn't begin to guess how much worse--"

"Why would _I_ be confused, little brother?" Franziska snapped. "On the contrary, your betrayal of this family has made things perfectly clear: the very sight of you disgusts me."

He looked away. She was far angrier than he'd ever seen her before; the silent whip showed that.

"At this point in time, I disgust _myself_, Franziska. But if anyone has betrayed this family, then it is your own father."

"Enough!" Franziska shouted at him. "Don't you _dare_ try and shift the blame onto Papa--"

"Surely you're not trying to deny his guilt?" Miles could hear the anger in his own voice now. He knew his self-control was slipping, as his exhaustion took hold. "Franziska, he _murd--_"

"I know what he did!" She took a step forward in anger. "But you… you helped that _fool_, that _nobody,_ to humiliate my father in court. You betrayed the honour of this family and threw away your reputation for – _that man_. That… Phoenix Wright." She spat the words.

Miles looked at her in surprise, confused by the abrupt redirection of her ire. "Don't be ridiculous, Franziska. Wright is not to blame for what happened to your father."

For a second, he thought she was going to laugh, but instead, she gave him a look of complete contempt. "You still don't understand. Do you think I don't remember your little friend, with his little letters?"

"_What… is _that Outraged. Early to collect him for lessons, Franziska had caught him reading one of Wright's letters. He'd tried to hide it, tried to shove the treasure box back under his bed before she saw it, but her quick eyes had taken in the scene before his reflexes could respond. She'd wrestled the folded, lined notepaper from his grip and read it, eyes widening as they progressed down the page. He'd averted his own, blushing at being caught out in what he supposed was a weakness.

Her eyes had narrowed into a rage that he could see was coming, even though he didn't understand why. She'd ripped the note in half before his eyes and kicked the treasure box so hard that it hit the wall, its contents scattering across the floor. All that day, he was afraid that she would tell her father. But she didn't. She chose to ignore it, to ignore him. It had been a week before they spoke again – a week of mutual loneliness and hurt. He'd picked up all the letters and put them back in the box, running his fingernail along the fresh new scratch, not really understanding, then.

Now, he knew it was betrayal that she had felt. From a few lines of writing and a name, on a piece of paper. He knew that it was betrayal she felt now, all these years later.

"I can't be trusted anymore," he said plainly, turning to look out of the window. "By you, or anyone else."

"Don't be ignorant," Franziska scoffed. "I never trusted you. A Von Karma trusts no one."

Miles shook his head at the irony of it, looking at her over his shoulder. "Does your family name really mean that much to you, even now, Franziska?"

"Does yours, Miles Edgeworth?" A piercing stare accompanied her words, and he had no answer for either.

"The American police called. They told me you'd left a suicide note." This time she did laugh. "You melodramatic fool."

"I did mean it, Franziska. One way or another. I lost my way as a prosecutor – and as a man."

Her eyes hardened again. "Then go. And die. You are a failure – it's all you deserve. You've sacrificed everything for someone you claimed meant nothing to you. _I_ will restore the reputation of the Von Karma name. You… you're no longer worthy of being my little brother."

"Franziska, I didn't come here to fight with you – that wasn't my intention."

"Then why are you _here_?" She demanded.

"I wanted to see you. That's all." It sounded foolish to his own ears now, but it was the truth.

"And why should you imagine that I want to see _you_, Miles Edgeworth, after you ruined my father and shamed yourself by running away? Look at yourself – you're a mess." Her sharp eyes raked him from head to foot. "How _dare_ you come here dressed like a beggar and talking like a fool? You've thrown away everything that made you who you are. Do you expect me to tell you that _I_ forgive _you_, that it's all a dream, that everything will be alright, just like I did when we were children?"

Miles looked away from her again and crossed his arms.

"I expect nothing from you, Franziska. I never have. I'm the one who has lost my way, and only I can find it again. I have taken work in Paris, and I will be using the apartment there for the foreseeable future. I trust you have no objection. I would prefer it if you did not tell anyone I am there."

"Do whatever you want – it is of no importance to me. I can think of no occasion that I would need to discuss you with anyone. You are nobody: a fool and a coward. Go to Paris. Hide yourself away or throw yourself in the Seine. I no longer care.

"After today, you will no longer be admitted to this house. Show yourself out." She stalked away before he could answer, her heels echoing loudly in the empty corridor.

Miles did not attempt to follow her, although he turned to watch her as she walked out of the room. They had often fought as children, but they had also clung together in this house. Years of seclusion, surrounded by books of law and reminders of the legacy of the Von Karmas - yards of perfection measured in portraits along the walls and framed certificates of law. There was little they had not shared, but now there was a gulf between them that he did not know how to cross.

No one else that he encountered at the house wanted to meet his eyes. He didn't blame them. Some regarded him as the reason Von Karma was now on death row, a ruined man. Others were kept silent by the knowledge that their patron had murdered his father. Either way, Miles was glad to leave.

As he stood in the driveway of the mansion, he looked up at the small window on the second floor. Franziska had always stood there, watching him leave. First, when he started at university as a day pupil. Then, when he went abroad to Cambridge or to Paris. And finally, the last time, when he'd gone to Los Angeles. Today, although he stared up at the window for some time, it remained empty.

In the aftermath of the encounter with his sister, the fatigue he had been fighting against all day had returned, bringing with it emptiness and a renewed sense of loss that he had not felt so keenly since the night after his trial. It was as if he looked at the building in front of him with new eyes. As familiar as the house and its occupants were, it no longer felt like his home.

_It almost feels like a dream. It's as if I slept for fifteen years, and only really awoke that day in court, when I heard that scream again. Maybe it would have been better if I had stayed asleep. Sometimes, even knowing what I know, I would trade what I have now for what I had then - the security of it, the certainty. That was what he offered me, and what I held on to for all those years. It was the only way out of my nightmares, the only way to atone for what I had done._

_And now? Who will absolve me now?_

Turning away from the house for the last time, he drove directly to the airport and returned immediately to Paris.

* * *

Franziska remained on his mind for the next few days. Whenever he looked at her picture on the wall of the apartment, he no longer saw the triumphant, flawless prodigy of six years ago. Now, all he recalled was anger and the look of betrayal in her eyes when she turned away from him for the last time. He remembered that day when she had caught him with the letter in his hand, and he remembered another piece of paper with burgundy edges he had left in a manila envelope on his desk at the Prosecutor's Office.

A couple of days before he was due to take up his new job, he called into the office to fill in paperwork and meet his new colleagues. Marceau, Defès et Associés was situated off Boulevard St-Germain in the Latin Quarter, not far from Île de la Cité and within easy walking distance of the apartment. He was relieved to find that it proved to be as quiet and modest a law practice as he'd been told.

A small, neat man of indeterminate middle age, grey-haired and wearing a grey suit, greeted him in the lobby. "Heureux de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Von Karma. My name is Jean St-Juste – I will be acting as your legal secretary while you are here. Please ask me for anything you need."

They shook hands. The legal secretary's manner was a calm mixture of sincerity and reserve. He exhibited no apparent curiosity about this new lawyer who had appeared unexpectedly and Miles had a distinct sense that perhaps the man knew more than he might have liked already. But if that was so, he gave no outward indication of it, and his air of neutrality was oddly reassuring. St-Juste's expression didn't allow him to divine what impressions he was forming in return, but inexplicably, that in itself was enough for Miles to warm to the man.

It transpired that the two senior partners were rarely in the office themselves, preferring to conduct most of their business remotely from their homes outside the city. The small team that did work there consisted mainly of legal secretaries and administrators, and Miles learned that the work mostly entailed legal and contract law for foreign businesses with interests in France. Consequently, clients rarely came to the office, and the majority of correspondence was carried out by post, telephone and email.

The office that had been assigned to him was on the upper floor, behind the area that was occupied by St-Juste and the receptionist. The room was small, its walls lined with bookshelves, and the large antique desk that dominated the space was placed at right angles to the window. Miles could make out the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, and in the distance, he could see the unmistakable turrets of the Palais de Justice. He looked away quickly, unconsciously gripping his left arm.

St-Juste had noticed the gesture and tilted his head. "Is everything all right, Monsieur? We can rearrange the furniture if you would prefer not to be seated near the window."

Miles recovered himself and directed his attention to a law book on the desk in front of him. He opened it and traced his finger down the contents page.

"Actually - there is one thing, St-Juste."

"Yes, Monsieur Von Karma?"

Miles hesitated, keeping his eyes on the book and carefully considering his words. His sister's unanswered question from a few days before still troubled him. "That is my... adopted name. I would prefer to use my family name. Please call me Edgeworth."

The secretary nodded, one eyebrow slightly raised, but otherwise unperturbed. "Very well, Monsieur Edgeworth. I will advise the other staff accordingly."

"Thank you. And please leave the desk where it is. The view towards the Palais is… very striking." Miles raised his gaze to the window again, and this time, he didn't look away.

_It will serve as a reminder of why I'm here._


	3. Why I Went Missing

**Part Three: Why I Went Missing (Paris, May/June)**

_"I don't know why, I went missing  
And though lost I found myself  
Where I had been all the time."  
- STYLE COUNCIL_

At the end of April, Miles had finally returned one of Gumshoe's calls. The detective had been trying to contact him persistently since he'd left Los Angeles - whenever Miles turned on his cellphone, there was the beep of a waiting text or voice message. Occasionally, when he forgot the phone was on, it would ring late at night, and he would switch it off after only a cursory glance at the screen, deleting the reminders later with no thought other than a minor flash of irritation or weariness.

After the initial search was called off, Miles had expected the police to merely shelve his case and waituntil a report came in of his body being foundHe had also expected Gumshoe to keep up the search for a while, but the level of the detective's doggedness had been a surprise. Miles was perplexed by it, sometimes even annoyed, and yet, at the same time, he found it strangely touching. _I suppose I'm lucky he's not too bright, or he'd have found me already._

He had harboured no real desire to speak to anyone in Los Angeles since his departure, and did not feel comfortable at the prospect of answering difficult questions about his health, mental well-being or whereabouts – especially from Gumshoe. But on the nights when he was plagued by nightmares, he found himself dwelling on his actions and on the note he had left behind.

It had been during one of his more protracted periods of insomnia, after Von Karma's voice whispering in his ear had kept him from sleep for almost a week, that he'd finally pressed the call button. He had no logical reason for it – he had been sitting on the couch, drinking tea and reading that evening's edition of _Le Monde_, when an article about Global Studios acquiring a French subsidiary had caught his eye.Just the name had brought a memory, so clear that it had caused him to take a sharp intake of breath. He was standing in court opposite Phoenix Wright, with Will Powers hanging his head in the witness box between them. _They all lie. _Headache-bright lights, the smell of polish, and the buzz of the spectators, like static blurring his mind. _He must be guilty._ That intense blue gaze and his growing uncertainty in the face of it; the rough wood under his fingertips as he pressed his hands down onto the surface of the bench to relieve the tension, to regain his focus. _But what if he isn't?_

The image had vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind an echo of misgiving that he had dismissed as mere sentimentality, before returning to his reading. But two hours later, he'd been unable to completely shake the feeling, and he had a sudden, inexplicable longing to know what was happening in Los Angeles. There was no one he could possibly call except Gumshoe, and it was only a matter of a few impulsive seconds until he was listening to the dull buzz of the ringing tone.

As he'd waited for the detective to pick up, he had mentally rehearsed his response to the inevitable first question. _I'm fine… perfectly fine._

* * *

It was a lie that Miles had told Gumshoe many times; the first, five years ago, in the lobby after his inaugural trial as a prosecutor.

It was the first time he had set foot in _that_ particular courtroom of the Los Angeles District Courthouse since the trial of Yanni Yogi, a decade earlier. Outwardly, he'd been confident, wearing his brand new suit from London that imitated Von Karma's own, and carrying the expensive aluminium briefcase that had been a gift from Franziska when he graduated university. Inwardly, he'd been on edge. It was not due to nerves about the trial – that was an embarrassingly simple affair – an open and shut case that he'd been assigned by Von Karma to ensure the perfect first entry on his perfect record of prosecution. But the anxiety of being in that room after what had gone before was a personal failing that he knew he had to overcome.

The part of him that was still the son of Gregory Edgeworth, then, had been waiting for the lights to go out, the earth to start shaking, even as he strode across the floor and up the steps to the prosecution bench. Looking at the witness stand had reminded him of his own guilt and his own lies; of the scared boy he had once been and who sometimes, in the middle of the night, he was again. Despite his training, it had taken an effort of will to force those thoughts to the furthest recesses of his mind, to remain suitably impassive as he removed the relevant papers from his briefcase and arranged them precisely and deliberately on the desk in front of him, to focus only on his opponent and the desire to win.

"_The prosecution is ready, your Honour."_

The trial had gone well, right up until the end. The Fey woman had been no more than an irritation – a sentimental fool grasping at straws and relying on the words of her co-counsel. As an opponent, she was weak; he parried, feinted, led her into a trap, and was confident within minutes that she had nothing in reserve, that the verdict would be his. The co-counsel, however, was a different matter. His eyes had met Miles' several times across the court, and there was a fire there that he found unsettling. _A dangerous man to have as an enemy._

And then… it had all been swept away. It had happened so quickly. Chaos descended on the courtroom in seconds. _Blood. So much blood. On the witn__ess box. In his hand._ Memories had rushed back from where he had confined them – the screaming filled his head, and the air tasted of gunpowder and sweat.

Amidst the confusion of the shocked bailiffs, panicked onlookers and medical staff, Miles had made it to the Prosecutor's Lobby with a semblance of dignity. But the door had barely swung shut behind him when his stomach started to heave, and he leaned forward, palm against the wall, covering his mouth with his other hand in a desperate attempt to hold the sickness back. He tried to focus on the feeling of the cold, smooth marble against his palm, struggling to keep the dizziness at bay.

It was Gumshoe who had followed him from the courtroom to the deserted lobby; Gumshoe who had placed a firm hand on his shoulder to steady him, silently proffering a plastic wastebasket whilst keeping his eyes averted in a clumsy attempt to be delicate; Gumshoe who had shielded him from view, away from curious eyes.

"_Alright now, si__r?"_ The detective had asked quietly. Miles had looked up, finally, to see a spark of… _something_ in Gumshoe's eyes. Sympathy? Pity? Either way, it made him recoil instinctively against the perception of his weakness.

"_Take your hand_off_ me, detective."_ He had pulled away from the touch, leaning back against the wall for support, while casting a disgusted look at the grubby handkerchief that the detective was holding out. He pulled out his own and wiped his mouth and hand. _"I'm… fine. Perfectly fine. I don't need your assistance. I don't need_anyone's_ assistance."_

Gumshoe had merely nodded, seemingly unaffected by the lack of appreciation, then left him alone, disappearing back through the swing doors into the chaos of the courtroom. Belatedly, Miles noticed that the detective had retrieved his aluminium briefcase from the prosecution bench and left it leaning against the wall at his feet. As he reached down to pick it up, he realised that his hand was shaking, but by the time he exited the courthouse, no one noticed his white-knuckle grip on the case, or that his left hand was concealed in his pocket. The waiting media just saw the epitome of coldness and arrogance as he pushed past them disdainfully to where his mentor waited for him in the back of the sleek, black car.

For a long time afterwards, Miles had worried that word of his moment of weakness would make its way back to Von Karma, or that the novice prosecutor would become a source of derision at the police precinct. But as far as he could tell, Gumshoe had never spoken of it to anyone, himself included. It was as if it had never happened.

* * *

When the detective had answered that first call, there had been a long pause. Then, _"Sir…__? Mr. Edgew__orth, sir?"_ The complete disbelief in Gumshoe's voice, and the thought of that familiar stunned expression which probably accompanied it, had made Miles smile.

"_I can't imagine who else you might have been expecting on this number."_

"_You're not… I mean… um, are you alright, sir?"_

Miles had hesitated, just for a moment, before replying. _"I'm perfectly fine, Detective. As always."_

Later, he'd reasoned with himself that he had only called so that the detective would stop leaving messages, and stop trying to find him; that if he hadn't, it would only have been a matter of time before the French police would knock at the door of his apartment or his office, and he'd have to either run again or face the media. But although he told himself that this first call in April would not be repeated, Miles found that through May and into June, the temptation was too great, and he and Gumshoe had spoken several times more.

The detective had told him that the Prosecutor's Office was in disarray, having lost both the Chief Prosecutor and the Head Prosecutor in the same month, and was now struggling to recruit anyone new due to the evidence tampering scandals. The Police Department, too, was still reeling under the cloud of Gant's disgrace, with detectives under investigation and the press keen to exploit any perceived vulnerability.

Underlying all of Gumshoe's woes was an unspoken but gentle reproach to which Miles always felt an answering twitch of guilt and duty. But he knew he couldn't return, and it was impossible for him to explain to Gumshoe why he'd had to leave. He couldn't have found the words even if he wanted to – and in any case, he doubted that the detective would really understand. Miles had simply told him that he should stay in touch, but made no attempt to elaborate. He knew that the detective would accept his answer, because he always did. That was just how things had always stood between them since that day five years ago in the Prosecutor's Lobby.

* * *

At the very end of May, the inquiries into the evidence tampering accusations were concluded. Miles read a brief summary in that evening's newspaper, reflecting that if it was a big enough story to make even a footnote in the international affairs column of a European paper, it was unlikely to go away as quickly as the parties concerned evidently hoped.

Gumshoe called later that night, and Miles was unsurprised to hear that in the eyes of those on the ground, the official report was a whitewash. It asserted that the scandal was confined to the events surrounding the SL-9 incident and that culpability was assigned to those already dead or disgraced. Von Karma, Skye, Gant were all under attack, and so, he suspected, was his own reputation, although Gumshoe sidestepped the issue, and Miles didn't ask directly. It was clear that the Prosecutor's Office and the Police Department were still blaming each other, but that little had really been resolved. He was absurdly grateful that his own name had not warranted a mention in the Paris press, as it was unlikely that it would pass unnoticed by his colleagues at Marceau, Defès et Associés.

When their conversation began to dwindle, Miles found himself trying to prolong it. Despite his rationalisation since, he knew that there had been another concern at the back of his mind the first time he had called, and while it had remained buried beneath the doubt and regret, it still nagged at him a month later. He focussed his gaze intently on the corner of the newspaper he was creasing into tighter and tighter folds as he only half listened to Gumshoe's chatter. It was almost too much of an effort to force the words out, not even sure if he wanted to hear the answer, but still, he had to know.

"How has Wright been keeping?"

Put into words, it sounded like a strange question, even to him. There was a long pause. Long enough that Miles expected the news to be bad, or to indicate that Gumshoe was thrown off guard by the sudden change of topic. Miles had just begun to wish that he could take the words back when the detective finally responded.

"He… um… Well, he's okay, I guess." He could tell that Gumshoe was unsure of what he was asking, exactly, and Miles was about to change the subject again when something evidently clicked in the detective's mind. "Uh… he doesn't talk about you, Mr. Edgeworth."

Miles sighed, closed his eyes at the sudden jab of guilt. "I see. Does he… think I'm dead?"

"I don't know, sir. He won't let anyone talk about you in front of him, either. He's been like that since he saw your… uh… note."

"I see." Miles repeated. He had expected it. He deserved it. But it was still painful to hear.

"He's still working though, sir – just minor cases. He seems fine in court. Still giving me hell on the witness stand." Gumshoe's voice took an upturn, clearly keen to keep the conversation away from any mention of the note or of suicide. _He probably thinks he might give me ideas._

Supposing he had been able to articulate his real situation to Wright back in February, which was unlikely, Miles knew that the defence attorney would have tried to talk him out of his plan to leave. Either they would have argued, or the inevitable conclusion would just have been put off until the next crisis. He had not felt strong enough, then, to deal with any of the man's trademark bullheadedness – and so he had lied, without so much as a second thought.

He was certain now that the note he'd left had done its job, but the knowledge brought him no satisfaction. At the time he had written it, during a recess on the last day of Lana Skye's trial, it had been true. Then, the prospect of further dishonouring the career that had been all he had to cling to since his trial had been too much to bear. He had intended it to prevent anyone from attempting to find or contact him, to irrevocably cut his last ties to a city and a country that had brought him nothing but grief and pain. It would be foolish to regret it now. Yet the feeling that he had made a mistake did not go away.

* * *

Miles put down his pen as a sudden wave of weariness washed over him. _Too much small print and too little sleep._ The warmth of the June air that penetrated even into his air-conditioned office didn't help. He switched his gaze from the papers in front of him to the window at his left. Resting his chin on the back of his hand, he looked out across the bustle of the Paris street below.

In summer, the Latin Quarter attracted tourists in large numbers, filling the sidewalks and roads with renewed colour and noise. In the distance, the midsummer sunlight touched the turrets and domes of the Palais de Justice, bringing the building into sharp relief against the skyline.

Unusually, the sight of it did not cause the familiar twinge in his heart. Today, his mind was elsewhere. He knew that in a few hours, in Los Angeles, Phoenix Wright would be standing up in court, once more defending Maya Fey against a charge of murder.

Detective Gumshoe had advised him about the case two days ago in a clumsy email. Even the bare facts made Miles recoil, as did any reference to the fakery practised by spirit mediums and their ilk. His childhood memories of Misty Fey and her repulsive claims to have channelled the soul of his father stirred his anger even now, whenever they crossed his mind. Still, he'd read through the notes and emailed Gumshoe in return, urging him to ignore the ridiculous suggestions of spiritual possession, to look beyond it at the people involved. "_This murder was committed by a human, for a reason. And Maya Fey has no conceivable motive for this crime."_

He also knew that this time, his sister would be the one facing Wright from the prosecutor's bench. There was no doubt in his mind that she had transferred to Los Angeles from the Prosecutor's Office in Hamburg to avenge her family's name, to succeed where he had failed, to demonstrate to the world – to Phoenix Wright, and probably to Miles himself – that Miles Edgeworth was nothing, and that the name of Von Karma was everything.

Miles wondered what angle of attack his sister would take in court. He had not seen her prosecute for several years now, so he had no idea if she had fully embraced her father's methods or if she had found her own path. _If Maya Fey is convicted, Wright will be devastated. But she can't be guilty – it's simply not logical._ He knew that Wright would fight this case with every ounce of his strength, just as he had the last time that Maya Fey was accused; just as he had when Miles himself had been on trial for his life. But Franziska was an unknown quantity, to Miles as well as to Wright. _I can only hope she has not become as corrupt and blinded in her methods as I._

And yet, at the back of his mind, he considered the other option – that Maya Fey would be exonerated, and his sister would feel the bite of defeat for the first time. He knew the pain of that bite, and he knew how hard she, in particular, would feel it. The sense of guilt at his own actions returned in response to his conflicted feelings. _It should be me trying this case. They'll destroy each other, and it's my fault._

"Monsieur Edgeworth?" The sudden interruption startled him. He'd forgotten that St- Juste was sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk, patiently awaiting any observations on the documents that Miles had in front of him.

"I apologise. I was distracted." Miles' eyes flicked back to the papers and he cleared his throat as he tried to bring his thoughts under control and back to the matter at hand. "I think we're finished here. I can't find anything amiss in the transcript. You can send it to the client with the usual covering letter."

St-Juste nodded, got to his feet, but made no move to collect up the documents. Then, very quietly, "If you don't mind me saying so, Monsieur Edgeworth, I don't think your heart is in the type of legal work that we do here. You do it very well, and very efficiently, but I think – perhaps you miss the prosecution bench too much?"

Miles froze for a second, his eyes fixed on his desk. _He's observant, as always._ Silently, he picked up his pen and capped it, waiting for the question to pass or for the legal secretary to leave. But when he looked up, it was to see St-Juste's brown eyes still waiting, still holding the question. Miles sighed.

"You're right, St-Juste. I do miss it." It didn't occur to Miles to ask_how_ St-Juste knew that he'd been a prosecuting attorney in his previous life. After nearly four months here, he was accustomed to the legal secretary's seemingly exhaustive knowledge of the firm and all who worked there. It was knowledge that was dispensed discreetly and only when necessary, so it had never bothered him that the man seemed to know more than he should. In a strange way, it was comfortable not feeling forced to lie, or even to talk about himself at all, if he chose not to.

_And today? What do I choose today?_ Miles looked down again at the documents in front of him. Then, he needlessly shuffled the papers together, and made a decision.

"One day, perhaps, I will stand up in a court of law again." He absently traced a finger around the seal on the contract that lay in front of him, still awaiting a signature. "For now, I am content to be here. I… lost my way." He hesitated, struggling to articulate his feelings. "I had to stop. I can't consider returning to court until I know, without doubt, that I fully understand what it means to call myself a prosecutor." _And that I can trust my own judgement to be unclouded by the influence of another_.

Miles felt the heat of embarrassment creep slowly across his face in response to his own uncommon eloquence. Paris seemed to be rubbing off on him a little – in Los Angeles, he would never have spoken so freely to a colleague, to someone that he had known less than a few months. There, he hadn't even been able to talk about himself to people he'd known for years. That thought brought with it a flash of regret. But St-Juste was a calm, perceptive man, who did not make quick judgements or hasty decisions. Miles had come to value his opinion and regard him highly during his time here. He was the kind of man he felt his father would have approved of, and the kind that Von Karma, undoubtedly, would have despised.

St-Juste smiled when their eyes met again, but his expression was one of quiet concern. "Surely your family and friends must miss you?"

This time, Miles kept his voice flat, and he looked away. "I… don't have any family anymore. Only my sister, and at present… we are not on speaking terms." He recalled the last time he had seen his father, as they stepped into the elevator together after the trial. He recalled Von Karma facing him from the prosecution bench, but dismissed the image of that piercing gaze as soon as it materialised. He felt increasing discomfort as the conversation veered toward issues he was far more sensitive about than internal debates over his past mistakes and the process of law and justice. _I haven't changed that much, it seems._

Almost as if St-Juste sensed the subtle shift in atmosphere, he moved on, without missing a beat. "And your friends?"

Miles considered that, picked up his pen, and turned it in his fingers thoughtfully, eyes remaining averted from the legal secretary. "Perhaps. There was a man – another lawyer. We were friends once, many years ago. Last year… he saved my life. And I… started to trust him. But I also blamed him for bringing shame on my reputation as a prosecutor. I was wrong."

"And now – I'm not sure that he'll ever forgive me for leaving the way I did."

There was silence for a moment.

"Then, you must explain your actions to him, Monsieur Edgeworth. If he is truly a friend, he will forgive you."

"Perhaps." Miles repeated, softly. He still held the pen in his hand, but its motion had ceased. His attention drifted to the window again, and he frowned, memories of his childhood flickering in his mind like images seen through a zoetrope. _"__We've both changed, Edgeworth."_

"'Dis-moi et j'oublierai; montre-moi et je me souviendrai peut-être; implique-moi et je comprendrai _(see note)_ '," said St-Juste, with a smile. "A wise proverb to bear in mind, I think."

Miles was unsure if St-Juste took his continued silence as a polite attempt to evade any further discussion, but he was relieved that the conversation seemed to be over. With one last, thoughtful look in his direction, the legal secretary picked up the papers from the antique desk and exited the room quietly. Miles watched him go with a strange mixture of calm and concern that perhaps he had said too much.

* * *

Later, when the long shadows of evening started to creep into the office, Miles put away his files with a sigh, checking his watch for the thousandth time in the past couple of hours, and wondering what was happening in the courthouse in Los Angeles.

He had half expected one of Wright's letters to arrive at the apartment in the first couple of months that he'd been in Paris. He had become so used to the defence attorney's missives following him around all his life that the sudden absence of perpetually childish handwriting on mismatched stationery seemed strange now. But he had been here almost four months, and still, there had been no letter. Miles knew that he wouldn't be that hard to find if someone really wanted to locate him. His German passport had served as ID; he'd kept out of the public eye, avoided using credit, and been careful with his bank accounts. But at the same time, he wasn't masquerading under a false name, and he was living in the Von Karma family apartment. Anyone with both quick wits and persistence could have located him, had they really wanted to, and those were both qualities that he knew Phoenix Wright possessed in abundance.

Miles told himself that he had never been expecting a letter, but in truth, that had not stopped him… hoping? Perhaps that was too strong a word. He grimaced impatiently at his own sentimentality. _Why do I even care, for God's sake? I didn't answer his letters for fifteen years, didn't even read most of them. I should be glad I don't have it on my conscience anymore._

He took down his jacket from the hook behind the door, and as he did so, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused. Miles wondered if anyone from Los Angeles would even recognise him now. He barely recognised himself. Gone was the mirage of the flamboyant prosecutor he had once been accustomed to seeing every day. Here, he wore a three-piece single-breasted suit, a white shirt and a plain burgundy necktie. George had done exceptionally fast work making up the suits – two black, two grey – and the first had been delivered to his apartment just after his return from Hanover. His only vanity now was a plain, gold tiepin which reminded him of the one that his father used to wear.

Back in Los Angeles, his deliberate choice of work clothing had served its intended purpose, but had brought with it the added inconvenience of making him easily recognisable both in and out of court. Here, there was nothing to distinguish him from a thousand other businessmen who worked and lived in Paris. It was a kind of anonymous freedom he had forgotten ever existed.

As usual, Miles was the last to leave the office, and he smiled to himself as he deadlocked the main door on his way out. _Some habits are harder to break than others, it seems._

His walk home took him towards the Jardin du Luxembourg, past cafés and bookstores – many opening late into the evening over the summer months to cater for the tourists who crowded to the area. Some days, he stepped into a shop to browse through antiquarian books, or sipped tea at a pavement café while he watched the world go by. Some days, he picked up a newspaper and spent the evening sitting in front of the French window at the apartment with a bottle of good wine to hand.

Once, he had even indulged an often fondly remembered university vice, and called into a tabac to buy a pack of Gitanes Brunes. He had been waiting to pay when he spotted a Steel Samurai postcard on a rack by the register. Given his situation, the irony of Will Powers standing in full costume against the backdrop of the Palais de Justice with the slogan_'Pour la Grande Justice!'_ had not escaped him. He'd bought the card and stuck it on the wall above his desk in the apartment, although whether looking at it resulted in self-mockery or self-reproach depended on his mood. The cigarettes still remained mostly untouched on the kitchen counter.

At weekends, Miles kept his own company, and when he wasn't reading, he amused himself by shopping for food at the market on Rue Mouffetard, or taking walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg. A small jazz club on a back street in the Marais became his sanctuary on those nights when insomnia or the desire to escape from his own thoughts and the voice in his head drove him out of the apartment. He found it infinitely relaxing to have no one else to please, no one to answer to, but there wasn't a day that went by where he didn't miss Pess. In the evenings, or at night, as he read books or snatched a few hours of sleep, he found the lack of that warm body curled at his side was a constant ache.

Despite the solitude, it was a peaceful way to live, and a complete contrast to Los Angeles, where he'd been constantly answerable to Von Karma, and a target for the media from the moment that he'd first appeared in court as Manfred's co-counsel.

His own notoriety had been assured when it was reported that he'd driven his first defendant to suicide and displayed no remorse when he left court in full view of the television cameras. From then on, he'd practically become a recluse, as the press monitored his every move, hoping to find some crack, some weakness in the façade of the man they had dubbed the Demon Prosecutor. Then, he'd been indifferent to the appellation and to the outrage over his manipulation of witnesses or evidence. Even when renewed rumours had circulated in the wake of SL-9, it had simply been an irrelevance – the only things that had mattered to him had been the guilty verdicts and the approval of his mentor.

* * *

"_You BASTARD!" _The gavel's measured slam had heralded a guilty verdict, and then all hell had broken loose. The defendant lunged to the side, taking the bailiffs by surprise and charging across the courtroom floor as people descended on him from all directions, shouting the alarm. Miles was trapped as the man, face convulsed with rage and fear, pushed himself up the steps to the prosecution bench. Miles felt his pulse quicken and he stepped back involuntarily as the man reached forward and grabbed him by the lapels. _"You filthy liar! I wasn't there. Tell them the truth!"_

There was no time to think, no time to respond. Bailiffs piled onto his attacker at last, but the grip on his jacket did not loosen. The combined weight of the court officials and defendant pulled Miles to the floor, and he struck his head on the handrail as he was dragged partway down the steps. Stunned, he reached out to grab the rail and prevent his forward motion, just as the bailiffs regained control of the situation.

"_Sir, are you all righ__t?"_ One of them was huffing.

"_Get away from me,"_ Miles spat, clutching the side of his head as he struggled to his feet. _"I'll have you all fired, you incompetent idiots."_ Sharp pinpoints of light fizzed around the edges of his vision, and he cursed under his breath at the prospect of the bruise he would undoubtedly be sporting by the next day._ Schiete! Verdammt nochmal…_

"_That's going to be some bruise, Prosecutor Edgeworth,"_ a woman's voice, calm and smooth, echoed his own thoughts perfectly. _"I do hope you don't have a date tonight."_ He looked up briefly, then deliberately returned his attention to straightening his suit and dusting himself down. She continued to watch him, arms crossed and head tilted to one side.

"_Miss Fey. Is there something I can do for you?"_

"_You had no evidence to link our client to the crime scene, did you? In fact, I can't help but wonder if you found evidence that may have cast doubt on it."_

She was right, of course. Not that it mattered. The defendant was guilty, just as they always were. It was of no consequence to him if eyewitnesses were confused about where the accused had been at the time of the murder; if there was a theatre ticket to suggest he hadn't even been there. The witnesses had been easy enough to convince otherwise during questioning, and if the defence had failed to discover any contradictions in their testimony, it was not his job to do it for them. It would only serve to drag out the trial and risk a guilty man being set free to murder again.

"_The verdict has been handed down. Mr. Grossberg had ample opportunity to cross-examine. The evidence offered in this trial is a matter of public record."_

"_The public record doesn't include the evidence you didn't present."_

"_That is irrelevant to the proceedings, Miss Fey."_

"_But it's not irrelevant to the application of justice, Prosecutor Edgeworth. I'm giving you notice on behalf of Grossberg and Associates that we _will_ appeal."_

Their eyes met, just for a second, and he saw the anger lurking behind her calm demeanour, met it with a flicker of contempt.

"_I can assure you that the outcome will be exactly the same and that justice will most certainly be served – especially after today's… display."_

Quite deliberately, he allowed a slow but humourless smirk to form on his lips, and was rewarded by seeing her expression harden.

"_I can't condone what our client just did. But he was right – you _are_ a bastard."_

She turned on her heel and was gone.

* * *

Then, he'd been indifferent to the opinion of Misty Fey's daughter, and had relished writing up an indictment for assault against Grossberg's client. He'd even laughed about it later when he sat in his mentor's office with a tumbler full of ice pressed against his temple and another full of brandy in his hand.

Now, he was ashamed to remember that incident, and many others like it. He couldn't even count the number of times he knew he had used similar tactics to get a conviction. He'd never knowingly forged evidence, but he had failed to disclose it, browbeaten witnesses, deliberately led the defence astray, used court protocol to his own advantage, and pulled any number of tricks during trials to wrong foot his opponents. And as in the SL-9 trial, he was sure that there had been times when he had simply not asked enough questions about the evidence that passed through his hands, and particularly when that evidence came from Manfred. _How many innocent people did I get convicted? How many more guilty ones walked free because we… _I_ didn't investigate further?_ He wasn't sure if he would ever know; if he would ever be able to redress the balance, or if he could trust himself enough to try.

His duties at Marceau, Defès et Associés were light compared to the workload he used to haveat the Prosecutor's Office. There was space to breathe and to think, away from the pressures that had felt insurmountable when he was in Los Angeles. At least, here, doing the job he was doing, and removed from anyone that he could do harm to, he felt he could safely try to rediscover the love for justice and the law that his father had instilled in him as a child, and that he had put aside as an adult.

Not for the first time, he wondered how Gregory Edgeworth would feel if he knew that his son had become a prosecutor, devoting his life to convicting those that his father would have defended to the end. If he knew how easily Miles had been persuaded from his ambitions to follow in his footsteps, and how quickly his memory had been put aside. He wondered if he would ever be able to stand up in court again as a prosecutor, without a sense of shame at his own disloyalty.

Miles was not given to romantic illusions. He was aware of his own limitations and didn't expect to undergo the kind of personal transformation that one read about in works of fiction or religious tracts. But if he could just reclaim his father's legacy, he felt that it would be enough.

* * *

His command of French had already been good when he arrived, and it was improving daily, the more he spoke to people and the more he walked about. He had purchased some law books and philosophy tracts to challenge his reading skills, and St-Juste had been helping him decipher some of the more arcane phrases, as well as recommending further reading and specific titles. Even his interest in history had been rejuvenated, and he eagerly worked his way through articles on the French Revolution simply for the fun of learning.

He'd discovered in the course of one of their conversations that St-Juste was a fellow connoisseur of tea, so on occasion, they ventured out from the office to sample the menus at a selection of cafés in the area. St-Juste knew them all – from dark, Russian teashops in hidden back streets, to the glossier places that served expensive pastries to foreign tourists.

Miles was full of curiosity about the French legal system, and St-Juste was happy to answer any questions to the best of his ability, so their conversation when out of the office invariably turned in that direction. The legal secretary seemed amused by his interest, but made no effort to discourage it. Occasionally, they would find themselves joined in cafés by acquaintances of St-Juste, apparently by chance. At first, Miles assumed that St-Juste simply knew a lot of people after many years of working in the area, and had a wide circle of professional contacts. But it became increasingly common for them to be in company, and he realised that most of those who ended up sharing their table were students or professors from the nearby Sorbonne University. Miles began to suspect that perhaps St-Juste was subtly trying to provide him with more opportunities to acquire information. Although he never commented on it, inwardly, he smiled, and took advantage of the chance to indulge his rediscovered interest in the law for its own sake. He was surprised by how much he enjoyed the impromptu lunch debates, but at the same time, he was becoming increasingly ashamed as they demonstrated how restricted his own education had been and how hidebound he had become in the past fifteen years.

The last time he remembered feeling a genuine passion for learning was in grade school. He had studied the books his father always had around the house, constantly questioning him about his work and concepts that, as a child, he found difficult to grasp from the dusty pages. His father had always been able to explain things in such a way as to make them fascinating, and he'd encouraged Miles' curiosity in everything from science to art. He remembered rare but treasured weekend trips to museums and galleries, where he and his father would ponder various exhibits and works of art together. He also recalled frequent visits to the city library where his father had indulged an interest in a variety of subjects, either for research or simply for pleasure, and where Miles had often kept him company with a book of his own until late evening.

"_If I read all the books in here, will I know everything there is to know?"_ His father had smiled at his whispered question, albeit somewhat wearily._"Well, you'll know everything there is to know in these books, certainly – but there are a million more books out there still to be read and thousands of new ones __every day. No one ever__ knows everything, Miles. There's always something to learn in the world and always something new to be found. That's part of the fun of being alive."_ Miles had considered that, his eight-year-old brow furrowed at the concept of infinite shelves filled with infinite books, until his father gave him a gentle push_. "Now go and see if you can remember where we found those books on Rembrandt last time – I still need to get more information for the fraud case I'm working on."_

When he'd first arrived at the Von Karma house, he'd been overwhelmed to find that it had its own library – he'd never stayed anywhere that had such a treasure under its roof. But he'd quickly found that in his new home, frivolous indulgence and time wasting were frowned upon, and his reading had gradually diminished into a largely utilitarian regime as the months and years wore on. Learning under the tutorship of Manfred Von Karma had been a means to an end; a strictly marked path that only took in a narrow field of knowledge and one set of rules.

Even while at university and studying for the bar in Los Angeles, the pressure of his nightmares and the well-ingrained doctrines of Von Karma had ensured that he never strayed. Any desire he had once held to learn everything from every angle had given way under the burden of concentrating on what he needed to know to pass examinations and to exact revenge on the guilty as a prosecuting prodigy in Los Angeles. And even within that study, there had been a silent understanding of what to retain, and what to disregard, as soon as the immediate aim had been achieved. As far as Von Karma was concerned, qualifications were just an obstacle to be overcome, not an opportunity to expand knowledge beyond the confines of necessity.

"_When we first met, I promised that I would teach you everything you need to know to bring the guilty to justice. Anything else is superfluous, and you must learn to recognise the Robert Hammonds of this world, wherever they are. I will ensure that you become as great a lawyer as your father. But you must trust me to know what is best for you, Miles."_ And for fifteen years he had, without question.

Looking back, Miles wondered now if the gradual, but relentless, narrowing of his world view that Von Karma had implemented had been part of the intentional erosion of his free will, or if it merely reflected the man's own single-mindedness. Whatever had been the motivation, the effects were undeniable. The automatic weighing of everything that he heard, thought or saw against the absolutes set down by Manfred was a reflex ingrained so deep that the effort required to interrupt it was a constant drain.

* * *

During a conversation with one of the French professors of law, Miles had discovered that St-Juste's wife was an administrator at the Sorbonne, and that his daughter was at the same university studying the law. This had led him to venture a question to St-Juste about why he himself had not become an attorney, but it seemed as sensitive a subject for the legal secretary as Miles' personal circumstances were for him. St-Juste had politely changed the subject, and Miles had regretted the intrusion instantly. Thereafter, their conversations had returned to the safer areas of work, the law, and the numerous packages of weird and wonderful blends of tea from La Maison des Trois Thés that Miles kept carefully shelved and labelled in his office. The latter were often sampled appreciatively while St-Juste translated particularly difficult passages in some of the law books that Miles had acquired.

Sometimes, Miles took an afternoon away from the office and walked over to the Palais de Justice to sit in the gallery and watch prosecutors and defence attorneys dance their dance. At first, it felt painful to be removed from the proceedings, but he reminded himself that observing trials had been one of the methods by which he'd learned to be a prosecutor in the first place. If he ever hoped to take up that role again, this was a logical place to relearn those lessons. Initially, he'd struggled to understand some of the quick fire French and the legal terms that were bandied back and forth; but with time, study and St-Juste's help, his understanding of the procedure and the banter had improved.

He often found himself gripping the wooden seat and willing the attorneys to spot the contradictions in evidence. He could sense when prosecutors were bending the truth, just as he had himself, once. He could see when defence attorneys were incompetent or unskilled, and it reminded him of the times that he had welcomed such men and taken pleasure in decimating their arguments and making them look like fools in front of their clients. Now, he felt a growing frustration at their ineptitude.

He found it interesting to observe the jury system that was in effect here. He'd studied it at college, of course, but all his prosecuting work had been in Los Angeles, where the system had been abandoned at the same time that the three-day trial system had been introduced. Not that he found it had any real bearing on the interactions of the prosecution and defence. It amused him how similar things were here, despite the differences in language and culture. Objections and counter objections flew across the court, punctuated by the staccato of hands hitting desks, and accompanied by grand gestures that owed more to theatrics than to the law.

Gradually, over the passing weeks, he had begun to see that the prosecutors and defence attorneys were not the most important part of this tableau. Nor was the judge, or even the jury, in reality. None of them were gods. They were just men. But by sifting through the evidence and the testimony, gradually and painstakingly arguing every point, the best lawyers were able to find their way to the important heart of the trial: the truth. He was sure that, to other people, that was self-evident, but to him, it was a revelation.

It was as if Gregory Edgeworth had whispered in his ear, the first time that long-forgotten knowledge about the purpose of the trial system had filtered back into his mind. Accompanying it was the realisation that it did not really matter that, as an attorney, he had chosen to sit on the opposite side of the court. What mattered was that, in doing so, he had squandered the ideals that he once held, and forsaken the real purpose of the law.

"_But don't you get mad when the prosecutor waves his finger at you and objects to your evidence?"_ His father had chuckled at that. _"You mean, like this?"_ And he'd jabbed an exaggerated and alarming forefinger in his son's direction and laughed some more. _"If he can see something wrong with it, then it's his job to say so, Miles. Just as it's my job to cross-examine his witnesses and object to the evidence he presents when I can see contradictions. If that didn't happen, we'd never find out if people are lying, or if the police have made mistakes. It's my job to defend my client to the best of my ability, but if he's guilty, then it's the prosecutor's job to prove it. The evidence will always lead to the truth if you look hard enough. That's how our legal system works."_

He could see it again, now. But seeing it was not the same as being able to practice it. Miles could not swear that, if he returned to court as a prosecutor, he would be able to resist the temptation of his years of conditioning towards achieving perfection and guilty verdicts at all costs; to resist the constant and persistent whisper of his mentor in his ear. He'd given in to it too often, and the fear of doing so again – ending up on the path that Von Karma and Gant had walked before him – was still very real.

* * *

Back at the apartment, Miles sat down at his desk to reread the information that Gumshoe had sent him about Wright's latest case, while he waited for the detective to call. _His first murder case since I left, and this one is a case he couldn't abstain from. Has he been avoiding them? I can't believe he's not in demand after last year – the entire police department under investigation, one prosecutor on death row, one in jail on corruption charges, and another driven to apparent s__uicide. Not a bad score for a rookie's first year – he must be a defendant's dream come true_. He smiled grimly, chin resting on interlaced fingers.

It just didn't make sense. Why wouldn't Wright be trading on that reputation by now?

He remembered the unwavering conviction that he'd observed in the defence attorney during trials. That absolute, unshakeable belief in his client, and his dogged refusal to back down, even in the face of the most damning testimony. The way Wright had responded to Miles' own confession about his father's death; immediately preparing a new defence, never stopping to consider for one second that Miles could possibly be guilty.

He'd asked Wright about that later, on one of the occasions that the defence attorney had persuaded him to go for coffee between trial sessions. Those blue eyes had widened in surprise, and then Wright had laughed, in the same way that his father had laughed at his more naïve questions. _"Because it was just a nightmare, Edgeworth. I knew it couldn't be real."_ He'd shaken his head, suddenly serious_. "The initial investigation was a mess, and the trial was even worse. But the truth had to be in the evidence, somewhere. I just had to find it and prove it in court."_

He'd made it sound so simple. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Wright wasn't avoiding cases so much as not finding ones that he could believe in. Could it be that he could only bring himself to defend so completely if he believed in his client absolutely? _Surely not._ But the more Miles considered it, the more he wondered. _It would be just like him._ He remembered the growing confidence that he had felt, facing Wright across the court during the Skye trial. The instinctual leap of faith he'd taken by requesting that the defence attorney take responsibility for calling witnesses to the stand. _I trusted him. I trusted him because he trusted his client._ It was an alien thought to Miles, the notion of having that belief and trust in someone even before the first testimony had been heard, the first piece of evidence presented. It made him feel uncomfortable, as if he'd come upon a hidden door that led someplace where the rules did not apply, where logic was secondary to emotion. _Did I make a mistake? Did I gamble it all on a lucky guess by someone I knew fifteen years ago? Or was that how my father felt about his clients, too? Maybe that's truly what it means to be a defence attorney._

He'd believed that Maya Fey was a murderess, once. But now, he had an additional memory of her. He remembered the moment when she had deliberately put herself in contempt of court to prevent a premature verdict in his own trial. She'd been escorted out of court by the bailiff, almost in tears, but had smiled at him defiantly as she passed the defendant's bench. His fingers tightened around each other at the memory.

_But that doesn't mean she isn't guilty this time. She was the only one in that room. And she claims to be a spirit medium._ He could feel the animus in his heart even as the thought crossed his mind, and he remembered Misty Fey. _She lied. Can her daughter possibly be any less of a deceiver? Wright would be easy to convince, after all._

And there it was. Despite everything he knew now, despite everything he'd learned over the past few months, he could feel it there, at the back of his mind, cold and immovable – the suspicion, the instinctual desire to convict even though motive or evidence might be lacking – just to be sure, just because of what the defendant represented. No matter which path he took, he always ended up at the same point, with that same, quiet voice in his head that had dominated and controlled him for so long.

"_They all lie, Miles. You know that."_

Miles closed his eyes, feeling defeated. The thought of standing up in a court of law and trying to live up to Gregory Edgeworth's words filled him with dread.

_I'm sorry father. I'm not ready._

_

* * *

_(Note) "Tell me and I'll forget; show me and I may remember; involve me and I'll understand."


End file.
